


Addiction

by Santillatron



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AND a reconciliation, Angst, Depression, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Happy Ending, Heartbreak, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Reflection, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sentient Bentley (Good Omens), Two pov, Yep we're going for all the feels here folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21659725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santillatron/pseuds/Santillatron
Summary: The world is safe, and Aziraphale loves him. This is what he spent 6000 years yearning for. So why isn't Crowley happy? They said demons weren't capable of love, and Crowley wonders if they were right. Does he actually love the angel, or is it so much more complicated than that? Crowley has always asked difficult questions, but can he figure out the answer before it's too late? Have they spent too long carefully avoiding any hint of a relationship for it to ever work?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 112





	1. Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> This started as idle musings on the balance in their relationship, so it jumps about a bit but hopefully it's clear what happens when.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley isn't used to getting what he wants.

Crowley had woken as usual, draped over the softest of sleep aides. He had inhaled the sweet, earthy smell of his angel, and concentrated on the feeling of their bodies entwined on the bed. Aziraphale had a book in one hand as usual, his other wrapped around the demon to hold him close. For so long this was all Crowley had longed for on those dark nights alone in his severe flat. His angel, Aziraphale, who by some stroke of immense luck (because it couldn’t possibly be divine will) loved him back, finally in his arms. He had everything he had ever dared to want, and more. 

So why didn’t he feel happy?

* * *

** Eden **

Crawly slithered up through the dirt and into the garden. He had one aim in mind. Corrupt the divine plan. Make trouble for the new humans, and hopefully things in Hell would become a bit easier for him. If he got this right, he might not be so much of an outcast. They’d sent him up here partly because even they could see he had imagination, but mostly to get him out of their way. Turns out Hell wasn't too fond of questions either. At least not directed at them. He set off to observe the humans, and formulate a plan. He was good at plans. 

The trouble was, he was not alone. 

He’d felt it the moment he arrived in the garden. That angelic presence, that bitter tang of Grace, like a long-suppressed memory bursting, unwelcome, to the surface. After a few days, or weeks (he wasn’t really sure how time was measured here) he actually saw his nemesis. He didn’t know if the angel was aware of his presence, so he stayed as still as he could on his branch in the pear tree above them, observing. The angel was talking with the human Eve, counselling her against something. He could feel the desire pouring off of her. Feel her need radiating out like the pull of a black hole. He slithered as close as he dared to try and hear what they were discussing. 

“I don’t understand Aziraphale, it’s just an apple. What could be so wrong with eating an apple from that tree? What's going to happen? Why is it so different from any of the other trees?” She questioned. 

“That tree is sacred,” the angel replied “and God has forbidden anything to be taken from the sacred tree. As you say, there are many other apple trees in the garden that you can eat from, so please, do not go against the word of God. Show Her you can be obedient, show Her she can trust you, show Her the strength of your faith and do not take any of those apples, please.”

In that moment, Crawly knew that what Eve desired most, was knowledge. Forbidden knowledge. She had questions that would not be answered, and she needed those answers. He began to plan, his mind turning the new information this way and that. He knew he had to get her to eat an apple from this sacred tree. Just before he turned to search for the tree, the angel spoke again. His voice was gentle, unassuming, calming. Totally unlike anything Crawly had been expecting. This was not the voice of an angel as he remembered them, and certainly not the kind of voice he had expected from one who was supposed to be a Guardian. Which only suggested that this voice was a conscious effort. How very curious. 

“Here, let me show you the fruit of this tree here, it is most delicious, and not forbidden.” The angel turned to the tree that Crawly was hiding in, and for the first time Crawly saw his face as he reached up to take one of the pears. He paused at the sight of this angel reaching towards him, his hair a fluffy blonde halo around his serene face. The expression was so kind that Crawly nearly slithered into his outstretched hand before he caught himself, realising what a grave mistake that would have been. This was not the sort of angel he was expecting at all. This one didn’t sound or behave like the soldier he was anticipating. He’d practically tempted Eve to eat a pear to distract her from the apple tree. In that moment, he knew he needed to know more. The angel picked two ripe pears, handing them both to Eve with the instruction to give one to Adam as well. Crawly watched her go, felt her desire for knowledge wane with her first taste of the soft fruit. 

He looked back to the angel. Eve had called him 'Aziraphale' he remembered. Well, Aziraphale was holding his hands in front of his chest, tangling his fingers together as if suddenly nervous. Then he abruptly turned his head back up to the tree. 

Crawly froze, eyes wide in shock. The angel was looking straight at him! His eyes were a soft blue-grey, or were they green? Whatever colour they were, Crawly felt as if he might lose himself in their eternal depths. _This is it,_ he thought, _this is where I get lost in those eyes, smited, and sent back to Hell. This is where it all goes horribly wrong, as usual._

But the angel just smiled at him, and it was like the first time he’d seen the sun rise, all over again. There was no malice in it, no revulsion, just pure, unadulterated kindness. Suddenly the world felt too bright, but Crawly couldn’t look away.

As quickly as he had looked up, the angel looked away again. Crawly felt the loss as if someone had tried to pull his scales out, drawing out a whine that came out as a soft hiss. The angel walked briskly off to a space where he could unfold his wings and fly back up to the top of the wall. Crawly slithered quickly up to the top of the tree so he could see where the angel had gone. He saw him standing atop the wall some way away, facing almost out of the garden. Crawly could just see the side of his face. He unsheathed a sword Crawly hadn’t even realise the angel was carrying and looked at it thoughtfully. Crawly winced as the sword burst into flame. The angel just stared at it for a moment, frowning slightly, before letting it extinguish and carefully putting it back into its scabbard, where he held it loosely, before staring out into the desert again. 

Crawly observed the angel standing guard for some time. He had never known such kindness, even before his fall. He knew in that moment, that he was going to do whatever it took to feel that warmth again. 

* * *

Yes, Crowley had mused, with his head on the angel’s shoulder, their first encounter had been illuminating, and a definite turning point in his life. He’d done all the usual stuff you’d expect from a demon, but his main aim in his miserable existence had, in that moment, become following Aziraphale around to try and feel that kindness again. It had become a drug to which he was very much addicted. And now he was surrounded by it, shrouded by its fierce caress, so why didn’t he feel satisfied?

* * *

** Mesopotamia **

They stood side by side on the mountaintop as the water level rose, watching as the people down below tried everything to save themselves. When Crawly couldn’t stomach it any more he turned to the angel and saw that he was silently crying. Trying to hold back the outward display of grief, and failing.

“Surely there must be something we can do, the children don’t deserve this…” Crawly said quietly. 

“ _I_ can’t do anything, you know that.” Said Aziraphale, his voice echoing his feeling of defeat as he turned to look at the demon. “ _I_ can’t disrupt the Great Plan.” Crawly saw the expression on his face, saw the pleading eyes, eyes that would forever be his downfall he realised. 

“No.” He said softly. “No, you can’t can you.” _But I can_ he thought. He would do anything for this angel, he realised. He nodded to Aziraphale in understanding, and saw relief flash briefly across the angel’s face.

“Thank you. For your… understanding.” Aziraphale said quietly, and Crawly felt his heart skip a beat. Nobody had ever been grateful to him like this before. Nobody had ever looked at him with such hope in their eyes, eyes that were now no longer crying he realised. Nobody had ever trusted him like this. Believed in him. 

He soared into the sky as the belief washed over him, intoxicating him, making him feel as light as the feathers in his charred wings, as he vowed to save as many children as he could, somehow. 

_No wonder She demands belief_ , he thought, as he realised that there truly were no limits to what he would do for Aziraphale now. 

* * *

Crowley had looked up at Aziraphale. His face was calm and unguarded as he read his book. He was totally at ease with Crowley here, in a way you can only be with someone you truly trust. Crowley had not known how to handle such trust at the start. He could only think about it in half-thoughts, lest it overwhelm him. It had taken him some time to get used to the idea that anyone, let alone an actual angel, could trust him so completely, but Aziraphale had proved he wasn’t just another blind angel. He went through life choosing trust, choosing to believe in people, even when it put him in danger, because he didn’t just believe Crowley would save him if he needed him to, he _knew_ it. Aziraphale, who had trouble believing in God’s Great Plan, in Her Ineffable Plan, yet he _knew_ Crowley would always be there when he needed him. Aziraphale had so much faith, and he had chosen to put it in a demon of all things. And yet this didn’t reassure Crowley. If anything, he had been getting more uneasy by the day. 

* * *

** Golgotha **

Crowley (he’d always hated ‘Crawly’) had come to the tomb of Jesus. He’d sought out the son of God, hoping to find the same kindness that he so desperately craved, but it was different. Jesus was human. He had been kind to Crowley, in the same way he was kind to everyone. He had been grateful to the demon for showing him the world and all its possibilities, but it had only intensified his desire for that soft smile, that easy demeanour that made him feel safe, those preposterouseyes that could convey far more meaning than was fair. He needed the angel like an addict needing his next fix, and there he was at the tomb. It had been two days since Jesus had been placed here, and by nightfall all the followers had gone home. He dithered, hidden in the shadows, watching as the angel looked around before slowly pushing the stone away from the entrance to the tomb. That stone had taken several men and two mules to pull into place, and for the angel to move it so easily hinted at a strength far greater than Crowley had realised. Angels and demons were stronger than humans, but Crowley could not have moved that boulder the way Aziraphale did, as if it were a pebble in the sand. 

Crowley stayed hidden, shivering slightly at the cold desert night air, and watched as the angel went inside the tomb before returning some time later with a newly risen Jesus. After a brief farewell, Jesus strode off into the night, and again the angel stood, frowning, with his hands grasping nervously at each other over his broad chest. Crowley stepped out of his hiding place and Aziraphale looked up in terror. Crowley faltered, preparing to flee, before recognition set in on the angel’s face, swiftly followed by that smile that blazed like the first sunrise. Crowley basked in its warmth, soaking up as much as he could while he drifted towards Aziraphale, pulled in by the gravity of those sparkling eyes. He was painfully aware that the angel had the strength to destroy him with one hand, and yet he moved with such grace and care so as to not harm any living thing around him. Everything about him whispered gently ‘be not afraid’. Crowley knew he was safe here with this becalmed warrior. His legs still hadn’t quite worked out how they were connected to his body, but he didn’t care right now. Right now he was in the blissful bubble of relief. He knew he would have to deal with the fall out from separating later, but for now he was in Heaven. No, actually this was better than Heaven, he thought. This was truly Divine. 

They talked all through the night, sheltered in the cave that had been the tomb of the son of God, and when morning came it brought Mary Magdalene, and Aziraphale had gone outside to give her the news. Crowley hovered again in the shadows as close as he dared, squeezing out the last of this feeling of safety and reassurance, even though it was being directed at someone else. He thought one of the others with her might have seen him, but right now he didn’t care. Right now, he was already plotting how to get his next fix.

* * *

Crowley had untangled himself from his angel and got up. He needed to move, needed some space. 

“Tea?” He asked.

“Mm-hmm.” Came the nodded response as Aziraphale kept his gaze on his page. 

Crowley went to the kitchen and waved the kettle into life. He’d spent so much time in Aziraphale’s bookshop that it had felt like home more than his flat did. His flat was where he went to sleep (when he remembered), and kept his plants, but the bookshop was where he went otherwise. He loved the reassuring chaos of the tables piled high with books, the comfy sofa and armchairs, he loved the bright skylight and the cosy intimate corners. It felt safe, it felt loved, cherished even. So why, oh why did he suddenly feel the need to escape?

* * *

** Rome **

Crowley is angry. He is angry at this horrible world, full of horrible people. He is angry that wanting knowledge, that stealing and eating a forbidden apple has become what he has just endured. This is not what he signed up for. He leaves the emperor’s palace as soon as he is done with his task, and heads to a tavern as far away as he can. He is too angry to realise the pull that led him here bears the bitter tang of Grace. Right now, he just needs a drink. And maybe he’d try this sleep thing the humans kept doing. Temporary oblivion might be just the thing right now. 

In the time it took to go from aardvark to oysters, his mood had vastly improved. It hadn’t been long since he last saw the angel, and he hadn’t worked out a way to see him again yet, so a chance meeting was most welcome. Particularly as the angel had actually seemed pleased to see him. But now a plan was forming, sparked into being when Aziraphale slipped and offered to tempt him to some oysters. Angels aren’t supposed to tempt, but Crowley had a feeling that this one did a lot of things he wasn’t strictly supposed to do. If the angel could do some tempting, then Crowley could do some of the blessings. Get a bigger slice of that kindness and gratitude, that belief, even if it was from humans. And it would mean that he and Aziraphale would keep having to see each other to compare notes. He just needed to talk the angel into it. He could never truly tempt him, because that would run the risk of the angel falling, and the thought of that made Crowley’s chest spasm horribly in a way he didn’t quite understand. And yet, the thought of teaming up together like this sent his frail heart fluttering. They would be deceiving their head offices, working together to mutually benefit each other. It would be incredibly dangerous, and that… that thought set Crowley’s whole body alight. He had always loved the thrill of danger, never feeling more alive than when he was playing with fire. And now he had someone he could play with. 

* * *

Crowley took the tea up to his angel, who was still reading in bed.

“Might pop back to the flat today, see how the plants are getting on. They’re probably slacking off horribly without me there.” He said, his voice slightly distant.

“OK dear.” Aziraphale replied, distracted in his story. “You know where I’ll be if you need me.”

There it was again. That trust that Crowley would return, that assumption that he wouldn’t be away for too long, that he wouldn’t stray. Aziraphale knew that he didn’t need to fight to keep the demon there for as long as possible any more, that they didn’t have to hoard their time together, because now they had all the time in the world. He was relaxed and trusting enough to let Crowley do as he pleased. In return, Crowley felt suffocated. 

* * *

** Elizabethan England **

Crowley strode away from The Globe, beaming. It had taken a lot of work to convince Aziraphale to set up The Arrangement, but he had loved every minute of it. He relished the challenge of persuading without using his usual temptation skills. He could feel human desires when he got close enough, or they were powerful enough, but the angel was an enigma. So closed off to expressing feelings that Crowley had wondered how he could possibly love life so much. But Crowley had persevered, even donning that ridiculous armour and putting up with all that damp in Arthurian Wessex just to drive home the point about the futility of them cancelling each other out. Why would they go through all that discomfort for no gain? Aziraphale had been flat against just not bothering at all, and Crowley had realised that he wasn’t going to be able to convince him on that front, so he switched tactics. If they have to do their jobs, then why both go all that way of it’s only a minor assignment? When they could team up, share the load, and the breaks, instead. Now he didn’t have to ride a bloody horse all the way to Edinburgh thanks to the toss of a coin. Crowley was still so blindsided by Aziraphale’s trust in him that he didn’t even influence the coin as it fell. Of course Aziraphale had protested to start off with, but it would be no fun if the angel gave in immediately. Crowley loved their back and forth as they hashed out the next assignment. He knew the angel would give in eventually, but he loved the intellectual dual it took to get him there. No human could match him the way Aziraphale did, and it was exhilarating. 

Not to mention the look he’d got when he agreed to make Hamlet a success. The big pleading eyes that Aziraphale seemed to have no qualms at using to his own advantage were worth enduring as Crowley gave in almost immediately and received that wonderful, kind smile that had captivated him in the garden so long ago. That smile, that belief would keep him going for another century at least. He'd been so overwhelmed by that belief, and giddy with the afterglow of kindness that he'd staggered more than swaggered out of the theatre, but he didn't have the desire to care right now. Right now he was sated, his craving calmed for the time being. He would care about it later. Right after he'd made sure Hamlet became one of the most well-known plays old Will had ever written. 

* * *

Crowley was lost in thought on the way back to his flat. Aziraphale seemed to have lost his drive lately. With their head offices no longer keeping track, the angel had become complacent. They no longer had to hide what they were doing. It no longer took clandestine meetings in random locations with hushed tones to work out what they could get away with. The danger was gone, and with it, the excitement. He should feel relieved that they no longer had to fear discovery and all the repercussions that went with it, but he had been hiding in the dark for so long he wasn’t sure he knew how to come out into the light. 

* * *

** Paris, 1793 **

Crowley had arrived at the Bastille just in time. He had been befriending the guards there for a while as he found out all the details that he would need for his report. They knew every single prisoner that had been held here, and their fate, and they had been so grotesquely delighted about it. So when they excitedly told him they had captured an English aristocrat he had been intrigued, until they began to describe him and Crowley’s earlier interest had turned to dread as he recognised the description. He bribed them to let him in and tell him where the angel was being held. He followed the executioner in, taking a moment to settle himself in a corner, his body easily able to find a comfortable way to sprawl with one leg up on the crates and barrels held there. He knew the way humans looked at him when he sat like this, but it was just how he felt comfortable. He was very good at not being seen until he wanted to be, and right now he wanted to see how this fussy angel with his frilly sleeves was going to get out of this mess. It soon became apparent that he wasn't going to save himself, So Crowley had had to stop time and find out what the cupid he was up to. He'd had to compose himself at the sight of the angel standing in front of him in chains, but he put a firm stop to where that thought was heading. The angel's lack of interest in saving the executioners soul as he was dragged off to certain death did not go unnoticed. 

Aziraphale had seemed so keen on the crêpes that Crowley could see the desire from across the cell without needing to feel it, and he knew he would always try to make sure the angel got whatever it was he wanted. But he knew he couldn’t make any assumptions, so it was posed as a question, and now here they were, in Paris, heading to a crêperie together. Aziraphale was animated, talking excitedly about all the different flavours and fillings you could get. Crowley knew the angel had a weakness when it came to good food, but he wasn’t prepared for the look of ecstasy that overtook Aziraphale’s face when he had his first mouthful. Crowley thought back to the way the angel had said his name when he made his presence known in the cell, thought about the way Aziraphale had looked at him, and then come back for more, looking him up and down hungrily as he lounged there, the way the humans did. The implications of that expression gave him goosebumps, and when paired with the look of ecstasy, and the sounds that the angel was currently making, it made Crowley feel very peculiar indeed. And yet he knew with full certainty, that this was a line they could never cross. If Crowley allowed himself to take that step then he would not be able to hide any longer and they would both be exposed. So for both their sakes, he would have to quash this longing, and make do with watching the way Aziraphale enjoyed his food. It would have to be enough. 

* * *

Crowley looked at his plants. They had been slacking while he was away, but he just didn’t have the heart to scold them properly. He felt relieved to be back in his own space. This flat had felt so confining for so long when he couldn’t be with Aziraphale, and yet now it felt like a sanctuary. Here he could relax. Here he could tend to his plants that adorned his walls, without the challenges that living freely posed. He’d spent six thousand years building walls around his feelings, putting up barriers to his desires, and now the blockades had been swept away and he was suddenly adrift. At the start it had been liberating, but now the novelty had worn off he was struggling with letting go of eons-old patterns of behaviour that had shaped his personality. He stared at his plants. At least this hadn’t changed. And yet, they no longer seemed afraid, just curious. Even his plants didn’t seem to know who he was. 

* * *

** London, 1941 **

Crowley had a dilemma. He had been carefully putting a controlled distance between himself and his angel, which had only been strengthened by the unsavoury events in St James’ park nearly eighty years ago. 

But now he was going to have to take a risk, all because that silly, trusting, soft angel had got himself mixed up in something that was going to get him discorporated. Again. He was going to take a risk and put his demonic life in the hands of an angel, and one whom had stormed off in disgust the last time they spoke. And to cap it all off, he was going to have to do it on consecrated ground. He was going to put both their lives in danger, and ask the angel to save him. He could perform the miracle himself if he had to, but the opportunity had presented itself, and this seemed like a good way to find out just how broken their arrangement was, and if Aziraphale truly didn't care for him, then at least he would go with a bang. Crowley was not particularly brave by demonic standards, but he was foolhardy, and at times it was hard to tell the difference. 

In the end he’d saved the books because he knew how much it would upset Aziraphale. He hadn’t expected to need to, but as the church around them began to disintegrate he realised with shock that Aziraphale had forgotten the books. Not only had the angel taken that leap to save him, but he had prioritised Crowley’s life over the contents of that much loved bag, and the demon’s infernal heart was once again overwhelmed. He’d concentrated on saving the books to avoid having to process that thought right there as it threatened to tear down all his carefully tended barriers. 

When he handed the bag over he’d had to look away from the angel’s face. He couldn’t trust himself to look at that expression of surprise and elation mixed with something he didn’t dare name. It was just too dangerous. His plan had been just a little too efficient this time, and he’d got far more than he was prepared for.

* * *

Crowley had hoped that his perfect garden, his inner sanctum here would help him find himself again in amongst the seismic shift that his existence had undergone. After all, he’d endured bigger changes in his life before, and the Garden of Eden had been the first time he had felt settled with his new demonic identity. He had been able to grieve for the angel he use to be, but then also see that his new form had potential. It had freedoms that he’d never had before, and slowly he had started to heal. Naturally now he was once again in turmoil, he turned to the one place he thought would help.

It didn’t.

* * *

** Soho, 1967 **

Crowley knew the humans would be a bit confused as to why they were stealing water, but he’d long since learnt that enough money could buy a significant lack of questions. It was a risky job and he just had to hope that they would be careful with the water, but he was desperate. He’d slipped a couple of times recently, and Hell were starting to ask some awkward questions. He knew if he carried on much longer, seeking the angel out like he did, then it was only a matter of time before they came after him and he needed a way to protect himself, and the angel, if need's be. Aziraphale had made it very clear that he was not going to help him, although surely this is what their Arrangement was for, this was the ultimate helping hand. Crowley had tried to understand why Aziraphale had stormed off that day, but he had been so hurt and frightened that he couldn’t really think about it clearly. And then the wars had happened, and they were both so busy, neither really had time for anything else.

The first (and last) time he set foot in a church he’d been astounded to see the font, full of holy water, just sitting there. The ultimate weapon against the forces of Hell, just casually hanging around with nobody watching it. It wasn’t until quite some time later, when his head wasn’t full of Nazis, precious books and brushed fingers that the full idea came to him. And now here he was, carefully planning to incite humans to burgle a church. He’d get them to steal a range of items so he had something to put in his report, after all he could hardly tell Hell he was acquiring a weapon that could kill his own kind.

His choice of targeting a church in Soho was purely coincidental of course. It just happened to have the best layout for the heist he had planned. It had nothing to do with it being close enough to the angel that he might hear about it. That would just be silly. 

* * *

Crowley sunk to the floor in the middle of his oasis, mister still in hand. In the past few weeks he and Aziraphale had enjoyed the freedom to express all those emotions that had been pent up for so long, all that love and lust that he had caged had been allowed to roam free in the light for the first time and it had been the best few weeks of his life. No more hiding, no more holding himself back, no more anguish or fear. But now he was spent. Their few weeks of living in a dream had settled into a comfortable routine with affection freely given at any moment. Reality had finished rebooting, and now everyone was where they were supposed to be, and they were happy. Well, except for Heaven and Hell, and they deserved it frankly. 

But Crowley had never been very good at doing what he was supposed to. He’d never been comfortable if he felt like he was being pushed into something, if he didn't feel like he'd been the one to make that choice, and right now he felt like he was loosing his free will. A hole had been made in the world for him to fit into, and he didn’t like it. 

* * *

** Soho, after the Ritz **

Crowley felt like he was floating. Not only had they stopped the world ending, but they’d also fooled Heaven and Hell into thinking they were invincible so they would be left alone. It had been rather surreal wearing Aziraphale’s corporation, but he knew his worldly adversary well enough to pull it off. It seems Aziraphale had also excelled in his mission, and now he had to acquire some rubber ducks to send down to Lord Beelzebub. He couldn’t help but grin at the thought of how well they would be received. 

After they had finished dining at the Ritz, the Angel wanted to come back to his bookshop, and Crowley had tagged along so he didn’t miss seeing Aziraphale’s face when they got there. Crowley had had to open the door as Aziraphale’s hands were shaking too much. When they got inside the first thing the angel had done was march straight to the centre of the shop, under that glorious skylight, yank back the circular rug and scrub away the heavenly portal that lay underneath. When he was done he finally relaxed and looked around. Crowley didn’t think the smile on his angel’s face at that moment could be any more beautiful, until Aziraphale looked at him, and suddenly everything else dimmed into the background as the full force of his angelic love overflowed into his expression. 

_You go too fast for me._ The words still stood front and centre in Crowley’s brain at moments like this. They occupied the space at tip of his tongue so the three words he wanted to say, couldn’t. They bound his hands to his sides so he couldn’t reach out. He had tried, timidly, to poke holes in his barriers back then in the Bentley, only for Aziraphale to slam down shutters of his own in Crowley’s brain. This was a line he had been prevented from crossing, and it hurt so much he had no wish to do it again. 

And yet…

And yet the angel was still gazing at him like he was the most important thing in the world, and he couldn’t look away. The rebellious spark of hope refused to die out. They had just come back to Aziraphale’s bookshop, his sanctuary, his home, his hoard that meant everything to him, and once again, he was ignoring it all in favour of this pathetic excuse for a demon. 

Crowley remembered racing in here, desperately hoping Aziraphale was here, even though he knew he wasn’t. He saw this place _burn_. And now it felt like it was burning again, but in a different way. It was so full of that stupid, glorious, exquisite beaming face that Crowley thought he might discorporate from the force of it. He couldn’t move, bound by six words uttered to him over 50 years ago. 

Aziraphale walked calmly over to him, and gently removed his glasses. Crowley squinted from the sudden glare, but couldn’t look away. Aziraphale was so close he could feel his entire body thrumming with tension. He was fighting against the gravitational pull of desire that he felt with every inhale of that ethereal mixture of ancient spices and warm leather. Every sense, every synapse was, for once, all working together in perfect harmony, trained on the celestial body mere centimetres away. He could probably close that distance with one full lung expansion, but right now he could barely breathe. 

And then after a slight hesitation, Aziraphale leant forward and kissed him. And suddenly nothing else mattered. Up to this point he realised he had been drifting through life, not really ever experiencing anything fully, not like this. This was like being reborn. Suddenly everything was sharper, more colourful, louder, more full of life. It was like waking up when you didn’t even know you were asleep. And he needed more. 

He realised Aziraphale had pulled back and was looking at him anxiously. He could only gawp at him, as if he’d never really seen him before. 

“Too fast?” The angel said nervously. 

Too fast. _Too bloody fast?!_

All at once, all the shutters snapped open. All the barriers vanished, the damn, the barricades, everything Crowley had built up over the millennia all collapsed in once instant, and the tide threw him forwards, arms no longer locked to his side but whipping up and around encircling the angel and pulling him into the path of the tsunami that had been unleashed. Aziraphale had been a soldier, and knew how to stand his ground, purposefully bringing his arms up to Crowley's back, encircling the demon and holding him close. So Crowley clung to him, hands in his hair, around his shoulders, everywhere he could scrabble for purchase to anchor himself as he poured the flood of 6000 years worth of emotions into this steadfast angel. His steadfast angel. 

When they finally surfaced for air, faces barely breath apart, Aziraphale looked delightfully ruffled and gave Crowley an impossibly fond look. It immediately became another addition to his catalogue of need. 

“How long have you been holding that back?” Aziraphale asked gently, the fondness of his expression spilling over into his voice. 

“Do you remember Eden? When you were in the garden with Eve, explaining about the apple tree? Do you remember the snake in the pear tree that you smiled at?”

“Yes I remember your serpentine form back then. You were rather striking. Still are in fact.”

“Hn... Yeah. Then.”

“Oh Crowley…” Aziraphale sighed. “But that was the first time you saw me! You mean you’ve been holding onto that all this time?”

“Yep.” He popped the ‘p’ for emphasis. “You?”

The angel glanced away, suddenly looking shy. Crowley began to steel himself for disappointment. 

“I knew you were in the pear tree.” Aziraphale said meekly. “That’s why I led Eve under it. I’d seen you around the garden quite a few times, but I didn’t know how to approach you. You were a demon, and yet you didn’t seem to be doing anything particularly demonic. I was so bored and lonely, I was desperate for someone to talk to.” He said quietly, then looked up at Crowley, his expression now tinged with apprehension. They were still firmly wrapped around each other.

“So you…”

“Yep.” Aziraphale’s turn to pop the ‘p’.

“Wait, that means you deliberately told her about the apple tree, knowing I would hear.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“…You tempted me! Angel all these years I thought I held the title for performing the very first temptation, and it was you!”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of it that way!” Aziraphale looked thoughtful.

“I rescind my earlier comment about you being just enough of a bastard, and upgrade you to utter bastard.” Crowley said firmly. Then kissed him again, just because he could. This time it was a more controlled affair, both taking the time to relish the other. 

“So you fell for a snake then?” Crowley teased as they came apart. Neither shows any interest in leaving the embrace. 

“No, it was later. When you came up to the top of the wall, just after Adam and Eve were cast out. You told me you didn’t think it was possible for me to get it wrong because I was an angel.”

“So I did, angel. I can’t believe you remember that!” Crowley was intrigued. He hadn’t thought it his finest work as conversation goes.

“It was the first time someone had said anything so kind to me.” Aziraphale said quietly. “You have no idea what that meant to me at the time.” 

Aziraphale looked so fragile in that moment. So vulnerable. Crowley thought about Gabriel and his mob of Archangels and realised just how bad it must have been for his angel before they had each other to lean on.

“Oh angel. I love you, and I shall spend the next 6000 years making up for the way they treated you.” Crowley whispered, leaning in until his cheekbone rested against the angel’s temple. 

“I love you too, you wily serpent. But what about after 6000 years?” Aziraphale whispered back. 

“Eh, depends on how much of a bastard you are in the mean time.” Crowley murmured with a smirk. He felt Aziraphale’s face change as he smiled, and his body relax in Crowley’s arms. Finding new ways to make his angel smile was going to become his favourite hobby. 

This new life with Aziraphale had been everything Crowley had ever wanted and more. He had never dared hope it might happen, so when it did it took a while for the novelty to fade into familiarity. 

And then, slowly the demon started to find he wasn’t finding as much joy in their new arrangement as before. Aziraphale had turned out to be very tactile, and it was becoming too much. There was no fun, no sense of achievement in the ease at which Aziraphale now agreed to anything Crowley suggested, and he found himself pulling back. After so long denying himself what he wanted, apparently the angel was now voraciously making up for lost time. 

Crowley felt like he was overdosing, his body so used to scraping every last moment of kindness and belief from their brief encounters that now he was in over his head. He’d felt like he was flying all the time, feeling the rush of the wind passing him, feeling the warmth of the sun that was his angel, but now he had flown too close and the wax holding his wings together had melted and he was plummeting into an unforgiving sea. He had had such hope for the future for the first time in his life, but now it just contained dread. 

Perhaps he never truly loved the angel, perhaps he just loved the chase, the anticipation, the idea of it. And now the angel had given himself to Crowley freely, he didn’t want him any more. The thrill of the unknown had been more thrilling than he realised. 

Was it all really just another temptation that got way out of hand?

* * *

Crowley was sat on the floor in his garden, his recreation of Eden. Back where it all started. Perhaps if he stayed here long enough it would all start over again. Maybe he would do it differently, maybe he would be smarter and not fall in love with the idea of an angel. But no, Aziraphale had pursued him it seems, and what Aziraphale wanted, Aziraphale made sure he got. Crowley hadn’t stood a chance. 

Well, now he wouldn’t play by the angel’s rules any more. 

Crowley didn’t go back to the bookshop that night. He knew if he had any chance, that this had to be done cold-turkey. He turned off his phone, secured his door and sat down to work out what he would have done with his life if it wasn’t for that blasted angel taking it over. He was going to break this cycle of addiction once and for all. It was time for a bit of self-care.

Crowley had always blurred the lines of life. Between blessings and temptation, between good and evil, between demon and angel, but the biggest blur in his life had always been the same. Right back before the rebellion, how long could he hold onto doubt before he burst? How long could he suppress the questions? Then later, how much could he see the angel without letting it all out? How much could he give, to get his next fix? How much pain of separation was worth the joy of seeing him again? The biggest blur of all belonged to the line that separated self-care and self-harm. Crowley had blurred that line so many times now, he wasn’t sure which side he was standing on any more. As he crept towards the line, alone in his flat, he had to hope he knew which way he was facing. 


	2. Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has never known anyone like Crowley.

Aziraphale was content in a way he had never felt before. He was the cat that had not only got the cream, but worked out where he could get an endless supply. He had a good book, a comfortable bed, and a sublime demon snaked up his side, whom he could now openly and freely utterly adore because it turned out that the demon for some inexorable reason adored him back. He positively purred. This was what Heaven should have been. This feeling of comfort, of security, of love. He glanced down at the mop of burnt vermilion hair currently resting into his shoulder. This was his gate now. This was his Eden, and he would protect this wonderful new freedom with everything at his disposal. 

Predictably Crowley chose this moment to uncoil himself and stand up. He’d never been very good at being still. Aziraphale turned his attention back to his book. Crowley might be fidgety, but he was still enjoying the peace and comfort of the bed. 

“Tea?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale made an affirmative sound. Crowley might be trying to rouse him, but he cherished this time and had no intention of getting up yet. He heard the demon wander off, and then the sounds of a kettle being filled, and tuned back into his book. 

* * *

** Eden **

Aziraphale had been honoured when they asked him to guard the Eastern Gate of Eden. It was an important role they had told him, one he had been created for. He was to protect God’s creatures from any harm that might befall them. He had taken up his post eagerly, and stood tall on the top of the wall, facing out into the desert towards the rising sun. After a couple of days he started to wonder what he was supposed to be protecting the garden and its inhabitants from. There didn’t seem to be much out there, and what he had seen didn’t look capable of scaling the wall. After a few more days, he began to turn his gaze inwards, watching the creatures of the garden learning what to be, watching their joy as he ruminated on his solitude raised up out of reach on the ramparts. 

And so he saw as the earth rose up, and as the snake slithered into Eden, and he felt the sharp note of damnation as the hairs rose on the back of his neck. Demon. He would have to watch this demon, find out its weakness and send it back where it came from. He was a protector, and he would protect, but he wasn’t going to blindly attack until he knew what the threat was. 

And so Aziraphale watched, and as the demon did nothing much other than apparently marvel at the wonders of the garden, he began to wonder what threat this demon posed after all. He realised he would need to draw this demon out of hiding, push it to act so that he could thwart it. Naturally this would have to begin with some sort of contact, so he formulated his plan. He led Eve to where he knew the demon would be basking, all the while keeping one hand on his sword. When the demon made as if to strike his hand as he reached up for the pear he nearly drew it, but the demon held back, looking uncertain. It did not seem to be a threat. Aziraphale was desperate for someone to talk to, someone who had more than a week of experience to draw from, and so he took a risk. Just before he left, he smiled at the serpentine demon, extending a friendly gesture that he hoped might cross that divide, here on the middle ground that was the new Earth. The rest would be up to the demon.

Aziraphale could think of nothing but his experiment in the next few days as Eve did the one thing she was not supposed to do, and God became angry. He hoped She hadn’t seen him talk about the apple tree by the demon, all but prayed She hadn’t seen him try and smile at it. He felt so guilty at his role in the humans being cast out of the garden that he gave them his sword to try and protect them from the desert he had caused them to be exiled to. 

And then, while he was watching them leave, fretting about what Heaven would do to him, the demon had slithered up next to him and taken a human form so devastatingly beautiful that Aziraphale all but forgot his own problems. The demon had checked for the sword of course, but Aziraphale had been unable to do anything but be truthful under that golden gaze.

Then he’d gone and voiced his concerns that his actions had led to them being expelled from the garden, fully expecting the demon to laugh, to tell him of course, to taunt him that he was going to Fall for this. 

But instead he actually comforted him. Reminded him he was an angel, and couldn’t really do any wrong. 

It was the nicest thing anyone had said to him in, well, ever actually. It caused a strange fluttering in his chest, a feeling he didn’t know what to do with. He had no idea how to respond. 

At that moment, Aziraphale knew he needed to keep this odd demon in his life somehow. He wasn’t ready to give up this wonderful new feeling just yet.

* * *

In time, the promised tea arrived, with an announcement that Crowley was going to head back over to the flat to harass the plants again. 

“OK dear.” Aziraphale replied, distracted in his story. “You know where I’ll be if you need me.”

Aziraphale was mildly pleased, he was enjoying his story and this would give him the space to finish it in peace. He knew Crowley would be back before long. The bookshop was really their home now, Crowley’s flat has just become overflow for plants and the occasional nap when Crowley felt the need to go full starfish. He trusted Crowley not to get into too much trouble, after all he had been coming and going from Aziraphale’s life for millennia without too much trouble, and Aziraphale didn’t want to start stifling him with too much pressure to stay now. 

He’d be back. He always was. 

* * *

** Mesopotamia **

Aziraphale still hadn’t worked out how to find the demon again. Humanity had got a bit out of hand, and divine retribution was being enacted. Aziraphale hoped that Crawly would turn up because he was in desperate need of his easy kindness, but he realised that part of him was apprehensive at what the demon would think. That he would think that Aziraphale wanted this. That Crawly would be disappointed in him. It was a terrifying balancing act that left him in such a state that when Crawly did show up he could barely speak. 

Later on, as they stood on the top of a mountain, the demon expressed the same sentiment out loud that Aziraphale had been trying to contain and he nearly sobbed aloud. 

Aziraphale hoped that Crawly would understand the words he wasn’t saying, see the hope in his face. But this was a demon he was talking to. A creature of infernal fire and torment. And yet he seemed to understand. He seemed to actually care. It was surreal, and Aziraphale felt his head spin as his heart surged in his chest. Here was a demon, doing the work that the angels should be doing. 

Later, when Aziraphale flew over the flood and definitely didn’t see the children Crawly had managed to save he knew that he could trust this demon. He could rely on him in a way he’d never been able to rely on Heaven. It was a warped notion, but here, on this young Earth, on this middle-ground between the two Sides, he had an ally. Maybe even a friend. The very idea was intoxicating, and he felt slightly alarmed at the lengths he realised he was prepared to go to, to keep him. 

* * *

Lunchtime came and went, with Aziraphale feeding himself from the kitchen that was kept well stocked for any craving he might have. Crowley was still at his flat, but that wasn’t unusual. He often didn’t have lunch so Aziraphale was used to eating alone when he ate in. He’d take the demon out for dinner later perhaps. Somewhere that had a sommelier that actually knew what they were talking about. They used to have to keep switching meeting points Before, but now they were free to go wherever they pleased, as often as they pleased. Aziraphale found himself touching Crowley as much as possible. Making up for all the times he’d ached to connect to someone. Heaven weren’t exactly the hugging types, but living on Earth in a human corporation had left him with a few more needs than he was expecting. Nobody else would understand, except for Crowley, but he'd known if he had given in and initiated that touch, then he would not have been able to stop. He could never resist once he'd had a taste, and oh, how he had longed to taste this acerbic demon. He’d just have to contain himself until Crowley got back, and make do with some olives. 

* * *

** Golgotha **

Aziraphale had been busy during the time of Jesus. He’d kept to the edges, but he’d kept an eye on the son of Mary and Joseph as best he could. He found the crucifixion dreadfully hard, even though he knew what was to come next. Then Crowley (not Crawly anymore, and Aziraphale did approve of the name change, even though he couldn’t admit it) had breezed in and without saying anything specifically caring, had nevertheless managed to make Aziraphale feel less alone.

He’d done it again later, when Aziraphale went to the tomb to meet the newly resurrected messiah. At first Aziraphale thought it was a human that approached, then he’d panicked when he detected that sharp tang, but when Crowley had stepped into the light he was overcome by relief. He’d seen the demon hesitate, but then continue as Aziraphale visibly relaxed. They went into the tomb, and talked until sunrise. Talked about everything that had happened since they last spoke, and Aziraphale didn’t feel so alone. Talked about what was to come next, and Aziraphale didn’t feel so isolated. Here was a demon, soothing the soul of an angel, and Aziraphale marvelled at the nature of the ineffable plan, and wondered if this was somehow part of it. Then as dawn came, Aziraphale had another job to do, and Crowley left. 

Aziraphale had drifted for a while after that. It helped knowing that Crowley was out there, somewhere, but he missed his friend. His isolation was more acute now he’d had a taste of companionship, and he found himself craving more contact with the demon, almost in preference to Heaven itself. He could stay here on Earth forever perhaps, if Crowley kept him company. He hoped their paths would cross again soon, but in the meantime he realised sadly, he had work to do. His cravings would have to wait.

* * *

The sun was starting to release its hold on London, and Crowley still wasn’t back. Aziraphale had hoped to have dinner plans by now. It wasn’t unheard of for him to fall asleep for extended periods, but he rarely indulged in that these days, not when he knew there was someone waiting for him. 

Aziraphale sat down with another book. He might as well make the most of this peace and quiet while he waited. Soon he was so engrossed he didn’t notice the time slipping away. 

* * *

** Rome **

Aziraphale realised that if he really wanted to see Crowley again, he would have to seek him out. Rome seemed to be where everything was happening these days, and surely there would be need for an angelic presence, so he found himself wandering the streets of the city, frequenting taverns in the hope he’d spot a flash of cochineal, detecting that sharp scent that followed it.

In the end he heard him before he saw him, and despite all his planned words, his excitement dragged him up and over in the blink of an eye, breathless and babbling so badly he got his name wrong. Crowley did not look pleased to see him, but Aziraphale could think of nothing but how much he needed the demon’s unique companionship right now so persevered. He was so focused on what the demon could have been doing in Rome looking so despondent, he slipped and actually offered to tempt the demon responsible for the original temptation. It was humiliating, but it earned him a smile that made his silly heart flutter, and before long they were enjoying oysters together. Well, Aziraphale was, Crowley was watching him with avid interest. Aziraphale basked in the attention. Nobody had ever looked at him this way. Crowley made him feel important. Made him feel like he was worth looking at, worth listening to, worth spending time with. He was giddy with the enormity of this new feeling, and he never wanted it to end. Before long he had finished the oysters, and Crowley was suggesting they find somewhere to drink. The demon had been watching him thoughtfully all evening, and Aziraphale was already trying to work out how he was going to make sure their paths crossed again. He wasn’t sure how long he could go this time, without being looked at like that. 

* * *

Aziraphale looked up from his book and thought for a moment that no time had passed at all. Then he realised that the vivid colour gradient in the sky had a fresher blue tinge to it, and it was working its way over from the other direction. The sun was rising. He’d been reading all night again, which, while certainly restful, meant that Crowley had not returned. 

Aziraphale tried not to panic. 

He reminded himself that Crowley was free to come and go as he pleased. That he had probably fallen asleep at his flat. That they had nothing to fear. That any minute now the demon would come sauntering in without a care in the world, drape himself over the sofa, mumbling some apology about missing dinner, which Aziraphale would brush off with only a small taunt about time keeping, and they would make plans for the day. That there could be no other reason for Crowley’s prolonged absence, without even a phone call… 

He really, really tried not to panic. 

* * *

** Arthurian Wessex **

Aziraphale liked being a knight. He liked Arthur, and the other knights. He felt like he was making a valid contribution, but mostly he felt like he was part of something important. It wasn’t quite the same as he had with Crowley, but it tided him over. 

He’d heard stories of an evil knight that was terrorising the villages. The Black Knight was certainly causing trouble for Arthur. Aziraphale listened to the stories that were spreading of the Black Knight’s immense strength and cunning, and found himself hoping. It was ridiculous, but he missed Crowley, and this Black Knight certainly sounded like the demon’s style. So when Arthur proposed they send an emissary, he immediately volunteered. If the Black Knight was Crowley, then a human wouldn’t stand a chance if they challenged the demon. If it wasn’t Crowley, then a human wouldn’t get the chance to challenge him at all. He gathered supplies for a few days, and set off. 

The Black Knight had indeed been Crowley. Aziraphale was grumpy from having to ride his horse so much, but he had still been pleased that he was right. There was no mistaking that voice, even if his ridiculous armour did actually make him walk almost normally. 

Unfortunately Crowley seemed to think they were wasting their time, just cancelling each other out. Perhaps he had been wrong about the demon, perhaps Crowley was just there to tempt him away from his work? He had been so offended by the suggestion he had stormed off in disgust before they’d really had a chance to catch up. The thought of disobeying Heaven terrified him, even though a tiny part of him, a voice he had been forcing down forever, suspected that Crowley might actually be right. 

When Crowley came to find him later, sans Black Knight outfit, he was very apologetic. Aziraphale had calmed down by this point, and the two of them fell back into their easy banter, mostly full of complaints about the dampness in this part of the world, and the inherent belligerence of horses. Aziraphale was mildly amused to find that horses really did not like Crowley at all. Something to do with them fearing snakes, and being able to tell that he wasn’t human. The angel did, by definition, love all of God’s creatures, which included horses. Although he realised that you could vary the intensity of that love rather a lot when it came to something that was basically an uncomfortable, neurotic bundle of gas walking around on its toes all the time. They were far enough into their mead that he didn’t dwell too much on his realisation that Crowley probably counted as one of God’s creatures too, which might have explained the way his mood had significantly improved when Crowley had come back to apologise. That would surely be the explanation for the way his chest fluttered when he realised that Crowley seemed to care what he thought of him. That his opinion was important. That he was important to Crowley.

Yes, it was just his usual love for everything, varying as it did. That was it. 

* * *

Aziraphale was failing to stay calm. It was past lunchtime again and still Crowley hadn’t sauntered in with his usual charm and brevity. They’d gone years without seeing each other in the past, but that was back when they had jobs to do, and no time for holidays. Now there was nothing in their way, and Crowley was staying away. Aziraphale tried to imagine what could be keeping the demon. It was possible he was just having an extra long nap, or that something was wrong with his plants which was taking a while to sort out, but Aziraphale couldn’t shake the thought that Crowley was disappointed with him. That maybe the demon was avoiding him because he’d realised it had all been a mistake. Crowley was so effortlessly stylish, so cunning in ways that Aziraphale with his soldier’s brain just couldn’t fathom. Crowley insinuated his way through life with such grace, and here he was, frumpy and boring in his stale bookshop. He’d told Crowley all those years ago that he went too fast for him. Perhaps it was he that was going too slow for the demon. 

He tried calling Crowley, half forming a plan to ask him if he wanted to try again for dinner tonight, perhaps go somewhere a bit more exciting, but it didn’t ring. 

Crowley’s phone wasn’t able to connect any calls. 

Aziraphale began to panic in earnest. 

* * *

** Elizabethan England **

Aziraphale waited as patiently as he could for Crowley to arrive. They had been meeting sporadically for a while ever since Aziraphale relented and entered into The Arrangement. They were supposed to stay out of each other’s way, only helping if things got out of hand. He knew Crowley liked places where they wouldn’t be seen together, but he really wanted to see the new Shakespeare play so he’d suggested it anyway, knowing it might be a small crowd. It turned out to be even smaller than he was expecting, but they would work it out. 

It dawned on him later, as he was bouncing along on another bastard horse that he should have been more wary of a demon tossing a coin. Although it barely counted as gambling if he had no chance to start off with…

And to be fair he had managed to get Crowley to take care of making the new play a hit with only a small hopeful raise of his eyebrows. He knew humans responded well to the way he could arrange his face, but it was interesting to know a demon would too. Well, one demon at least. 

And so he was on his way to Edinburgh, and while the thought of the long ride there and back filled him with dismay, he knew at least that he had an excuse to see Crowley again when he got back. After all, he’d have to tell him how his first temptation went, and the very thought of it was filling him with a dark exhilaration that he scarcely dared acknowledge past the realisation that he’d never felt such freedom. Perhaps if it went well, he might get the chance to do it again. 

* * *

Aziraphale was pacing around in his bookshop. If Hell had come for Crowley again, he expected Heaven to come for him at the same time. Tactically it made sense. Besides, Crowley’s phone still worked down Below. For it to be switched off must have been a conscious act (occult technology never needed charging after all), and seeing as Aziraphale was really the only one who phoned him now it followed that Crowley had consciously blocked Aziraphale.

He tried to rationalise why Crowley would have blocked him, but it kept coming back to the simple fact that Aziraphale had disappointed everyone in his existence so far, so why would Crowley be any different? He’d held out all these years, terrified of what Heaven would do if they found out he loved Crowley a bit more than he was supposed to, and when they were finally able to just be themselves, Crowley clearly found him spectacularly underwhelming and must be regretting the whole encounter. 

Aziraphale sunk into his armchair. The demon was probably trying to spare him any more hurt feelings by simply cutting him off, rather than telling him to his face that he had made a mistake. The demon was never very good at admitting mistakes out loud anyway. Aziraphale looked over at the painfully empty sofa. Even while breaking his heart, the demon was trying to be nice about it, and it only made him love Crowley more. 

* * *

** Paris, 1793 **

Aziraphale hadn't seen Crowley in so long and he was missing the demon’s wit. He hadn’t had a lot of assignments lately, so was putting his free time to good use grappling with the complicated process of opening a bookshop. Really it was just a place to store all his books, but it allowed him to function higher in society if he had a property and an occupation. He’d become fed up and desperately needed to talk to someone who understood his frustrations with humanity. He’d heard that there was a bit of a ruckus going on over the Channel, and it sounded like the sort of thing that Hell would have a hand in, which naturally meant Crowley would be there. He’d heard wonderful things about their crêpes and brioche anyway, and had been eager to sample Parisian patisserie for some time. After an encounter with a particularly stubborn official, he decided he needed a break and boarded the next ship. He hadn’t been in Paris long before the trouble started. It turns out reports of the beheadings were vastly understated, and while his appearance was the height of style back home, here he had been targeted within hours and was now sitting on a rather small, hard stool in the Bastille, with shackles around his wrists. He was stretching the limit of ‘lending a hand’ but he had to hope Crowley would hear about it before he ended up with even more ghastly paperwork. 

Right at the last minute he’d appeared and saved the day, just as Aziraphale had hoped. Again, he heard him before he saw him, that smooth voice that was decadence to the ears, always with a hint of a smile in it. When he turned around the sight that greeted him caused his brain to stutter. He had to look away, but ended up immediately looking back again, his willpower characteristically low when it came to sensory pleasures. The demon was lounging as usual, but the cut of his jacket was sublime, and Aziraphale was suddenly very aware of his bound hands in a way he hadn’t thought of them before. He explained his incarceration away as being reprimanded for using too many miracles (why had his brain thought of punishment at that moment?), deploying a small pout urging Crowley to rescue him. Strangely he'd felt a small pang of disappointment as the manacles fell away, but had to concede that his outfit hadn’t been the best choice in the current climate. He was relieved to find out that Crowley hadn’t been involved with all the bloodshed. 

He swapped his clothing with the executioner’s, and felt his heart nearly sing when Crowley accepted Aziraphale’s lunch invitation. He really had been looking forward to those crêpes. He realised as they walked into the streets of Paris that this hunger he was feeling may have more to do with being chained up and rescued than the promise of delightful food. And if he was channeling this feeling into the way he devoured his crêpes then it was surely safer than letting them take hold where they really wanted to. 

* * *

Aziraphale looked around his precious bookshop. He had disappointed everyone. It had taken him a long time to see that the disappointment his fellow angels harboured was borne from an indoctrinated idea of what they thought an angel should be, but Crowley was different. Crowley had made him feel happy with who he was. He had helped him to stop measuring himself by impossible standards, stop trying so, so hard to be something he simply wasn’t. In that first moment on the wall, back in that paradise garden, Crowley had shown Aziraphale that there was another way. This world was different, they could be different. Then they had saved the world as a team, and suddenly they could tear down that last expectation, that last presumption, and just, be. Together. Just how they were, just how they wanted. Aziraphale had opened his heart and his mind completely, letting the demon into his very soul, wrapping his life around him. 

And then Crowley had decided it wasn’t what he wanted after all, and Aziraphale didn’t know how to pick up the pieces. 

* * *

** St James’ Park, Victorian London **

Crowley had asked too much. Crowley had selfishly asked far too much, and now Aziraphale was frightened. Holy water would destroy a demon, they both knew that, and yet Crowley had asked the angel to give him some. To actually hand him the tools of his own destruction. He was more than happy to lend a hand where necessary, but not if it meant the demon would get hurt. He’d been so overwhelmed by the thought of losing Crowley, and then overwhelmed once again at the enormity of his feelings that he’d barely heard anything after that. He obviously (oh how he suddenly despised that word) didn’t want the demon getting hurt, and had tried the next best thing. He lashed out with his words, hoping that if he put enough distance between them, then Crowley wouldn’t need the holy water, that he would forget about it and move on. He stormed away before the tears could escape, fleeing to the haven of his bookshop, hoping with all his heart that Crowley would not get any holy water. He didn’t want to have to live on this Earth without him. 

* * *

The bookshop didn’t feel quite so much of a haven at the moment. It felt empty. It felt lifeless. It felt cold. There were stories here about brave knights, fearsome warriors, old friends. Stories about unrequited love, confusion and misdirected love, new love. There were stories about people, in all their wonderful kaleidoscope of variety. And there were stories that weren’t written down, of an angel and a demon forging a friendship in secret, that defied all reason, over copious amount of fine wine and laughter. 

But now all the stories were silent. The covers faded, aged and withered. These stories so full of love and promise had been forgotten, the ending cast aside in favour of a different finale, one that spoke of a different balance of happiness. Aziraphale resigned himself to giving up his happy ending, so that Crowley could have it. He trusted the demon to handle it carefully. After all, Crowley had never disappointed Aziraphale, but clearly Aziraphale had disappointed him.

* * *

** London, 1941 **

Aziraphale sat in the passenger seat of the Bentley, numbly clutching the bag full of precious books. He’d been a fool, and this time it wasn’t even in an attempt to see Crowley. This was the real deal, an angel nearly discorporated through his own naivety. 

But then Crowley had arrived anyway, hopping across the church floor as it burned the Hell out of his feet, and while Aziraphale had been too blown away by it all to even think about his books, Crowley had. Crowley had saved them. And this time there could be no ulterior motive. Crowley had saved them simply because they were precious to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale had known he was in love with the demon for centuries. Probably had been since that moment on the wall if he thought about it. Who wouldn’t love him? Here was a demon, who it turns out had a heart. And for the first time, Aziraphale wondered if the demon’s heart could love, and if it could love him. After all, you would have to love someone quite a lot to think about rescuing their most precious belongings when you were supposed to be avoiding being blown up.

* * *

Aziraphale realised the light was again fading. The sun was once again bidding farewell to this hemisphere, and he hadn’t moved, much less fared well. He had thought that Crowley loved him, that he knew him, that he wanted him. They had defied Heaven and Hell (although the boat was still out on God herself) in order to save the world, and, let’s face it, each other. Crowley had begged him to run away with him to Alpha Centuri, and Aziraphale had said whatever he could think of to make Crowley leave him, and he had still come back. But as Aziraphale sat in the ever growing gloom of his bookshop, his stale, stagnant, slow bookshop, he realised that Crowley might not come back this time. Aziraphale hadn’t been trying to see him, trying to make him leave, trying to do anything. This time he just hadn’t been trying at all for the first time in his existence, and it had been glorious. 

But it wasn’t what Crowley wanted. 

* * *

** Soho, 1967 **

Aziraphale had found Shadwell mostly by accident. The poor soul had become entangled in a complicated blessing he needed to perform. Aziraphale had listened curiously to the witchfinder, and realised he presented an opportunity. 

He enlisted Shadwell’s help to keep an eye on Crowley. The demon had been getting involved in some rather strange exploits lately, and Aziraphale was worried. 

So when he got the call that Shadwell had stumbled in on, and subsequently blagged his way into, Crowley’s plot to rob a church, Aziraphale realised with dread that the holy water had not been forgotten after all. 

Well, there was no way he could let Crowley risk himself on such a dangerous escapade. Aziraphale went to his wine store and selected a bottle of Bishop’s Vineyard. He’d acquired a couple of bottles a few years ago after being enchanted by the idea of wine grown on consecrated ground, that had then been blessed before being stored in the church for use as communion wine. He’d never got it out when Crowley was around, just in case it was holy enough to count. He decanted some into a leak-proof thermos flask, and quickly clicked his fingers to rearrange the composition of the wine into water. He added as many other blessings as he could think of, until it felt like the water might boil if he added any more. Then he screwed on the lid, and left to find the Bentley. He would have to tread carefully on this mission. With this act he was dangerously close to opening the vault of feelings that he kept firmly locked, and he knew it. 

* * *

Aziraphale looked at what had been his home for the last few hundred years. He had dreamt about this place long before he had been able to do anything about it. He had poured himself into it, obsessing over details, meticulously curating the feeling of comfort, of calm, everything that Heaven should be to him he realised. It was an extension of himself, an expression of everything he loved, but couldn’t be himself. That’s why he hated the other angels being here, invading his most personal of spaces. But he loved Crowley being here, moving with such ease in something so achingly intimate to him, like he belonged there. Which he did. Crowley belonged in his space almost more than anything else here did. 

Perhaps that was the problem though. Perhaps Crowley did belong here more. The bookshop wasn’t exactly Crowley’s style was it? His flat was spacious, ordered, modern, controlled. The bookshop was chaotic, full to the brim of details, all too soft. Poor Crowley must have felt like he was suffocating in it. 

Aziraphale looked around with a critical eye. If Crowley couldn’t love him the way he was, then he would change. And it would start with this blessed bookshop. 

* * *

** The Bandstand **

Eleven years. They had had eleven years to try and save the world. Eleven wonderful years where the two of them got to see each other much more than normal, even if they did have the wrong boy. Once they discovered their error they had done everything they could to fix it and Aziraphale had found out where the boy was, but had kept the information from Crowley. He wanted to try and reason with Her. He believed that She was just, and good, and everything She did was for a reason. But ending the world, and fighting each other just didn’t seem right. This didn’t feel like Her plan. But if She wanted a war, then there would be a war, and Aziraphale would have to fight. He would have to take up arms against Hell, and that meant there was a chance he would come up against Crowley. The very thought of it left him feeling physically sick. He knew he couldn’t harm Crowley, but he also knew he would have to fight him if they met. Aziraphale was created to fight. Crowley would have no chance against him. 

And so, he had done the only thing he could think of, and lashed out at the demon in the hope that it would make facing him later easier on both of them. If Crowley thought Aziraphale felt nothing for him, if he could hurt him enough, make him angry enough, then perhaps Crowley could make that fatal blow that Aziraphale knew he could not.

Crowley had not made it easy for him. He had tried to persuade the angel that they could go off, together no less. Hide out until it was all over. But Aziraphale knew Heaven, knew there was no hiding. There really was nowhere they could go - this had to be sorted out, or they would have to fight. 

And now Aziraphale watched Crowley leave, and he had never felt so lost in all his existence. The people that were supposed to love and support him constantly pushed him down, making him feel like a failure, and the one person who had actually been on his side he had sent away out of fear. Crowley may have wanted to run away physically, but Aziraphale was definitely running away from his problems on a mental level. Pushing everything down like he always did. Pretend it doesn’t exist, then it can’t hurt you.

But you can’t pretend 6000 of history together didn’t happen. You can’t imagine away all the shared moments, all the feelings that had built up and up. You can’t just pretend you don’t love someone. His feelings for the demon, however unwise, existed. 

And by God did it hurt. 

* * *

** After the Ritz **

Aziraphale had been so distraught when he found out that the bookshop had burnt down. Everything he had spent his life collecting, working on, pouring himself into, was gone. He didn’t know how it had happened, just that Crowley had been there, and somehow retrieved the only book that truly mattered at the time. But it had still hurt seeing his whole identity burned away. 

Then they had had to face each other’s head offices, and bless her, Agnes had been spot on. He’d been so liberated by pretending to be Crowley, faking his bravado and courage. With Crowley’s face he’d been able to be the person he had wanted to be. Confident. Demanding of the basic respect he deserved. He’d spoken to Michael in a way that he could never have dared if he’d had his own corporation. He’d started to understand why Crowley didn’t seem to want to be an angel. In Hell if they threw you into oblivion, at least they had the decency to be honest about why. They didn’t tell you it was your own fault, and make you throw yourself. They didn’t pretend they were better than you. 

When they both returned they went and had that lunch at the Ritz that Aziraphale had suggested all those years ago. They celebrated and enjoyed themselves as if there was no tomorrow. 

Then they went back to the bookshop, and Aziraphale had been overjoyed to see it all again. He didn’t think he had ever felt so elated in all his life. 

Then he turned and saw Crowley. His constant companion, standing there in his bookshop as if he were a part of it, and he felt his soul sing out in rapture. Aziraphale didn’t know if it was the champagne they’d been drinking, or some left over courage from his time as Crowley, but in moments he realised he had crossed the bookshop and taken off those infernal sunglasses. Somehow he’d ended up closer to Crowley than he’d intended, and he hesitated. He could feel the heat radiating from the demon. They were so tantalisingly close it was alarming and exhilarating in equal measures. He’d watched Crowley’s mesmerising eyes constrict as the shade from the sunglasses was removed, then they had relaxed again, the irises flowing outwards, opening the elongated pupil up wide, letting Aziraphale in. 

Then he’d pushed himself over that last few electric centimetres and kissed him. Suddenly he felt complete. It had been like the last puzzle piece slotting into place, making the picture whole again. It was like he’d been missing something all his life without knowing it, and suddenly it was there. He’d been adrift in an endless ocean, buffeted around by waves and wind, and here was his anchor. Here was his port in the storm that was his life. Here was the little hidden catch that would allow him to finally open up that puzzle box that was his life. Here was that little switch that had been stuck on ‘can’t’, flipping its way to ‘can’. Aziraphale couldn’t believe he’d managed to live without it. 

He paused, breathless with the realisation of the enormity of what he’d just done, what it had felt like. He would have been completely overwhelmed if he hadn’t just found his grounding force. He suddenly understood when humans referred to each other as their rock. 

Crowley looked stunned. Stunned and slightly confused. Aziraphale felt the anxiety creep up. What if Crowley hadn’t wanted that? What if he’d pushed him too far too soon? 

Aziraphale asked the only thing that he thought would make sense, and Crowley had blinked, his face changing from confusion to utter certainty in that blink, and then he just surged. He kissed Aziraphale with such a fierce intensity that there was no doubt as to which occult being he answered. Or used to. He was frantic, and needy, and still there was more. Aziraphale let it all wash over him, not trying to stand against the tide but instead letting it flow around him and through him until the surge calmed and they could both catch their breath. 

Their next kiss was more controlled, more giving in affection than taking. More tender, with reverent hands caressing face and neck. There was no wild desperation, no frantic need, just soft caresses that gave them time to appreciate that yes, here was the one they loved, loving them back. By contrast the words were merely a formality. Purely sounds that labelled the care and adoration that their lips conveyed. 

Aziraphale was a being of love, and he showed his love every way he knew how. He lavished loving touches on Crowley, remembering all the times he had so desperately needed them but couldn’t cross that line of safety. He openly showered the demon with praise, for all the times he had admired him but had only been able to stick to his Heavenly script. He poured all his love out freely, saying yes as often as he could, because he could. Nothing was denied, nothing was forbidden, and he had never felt happier. Crowley became his foundation rock, his datum point from which he could expand, safe in the knowledge of how to get back to centre, back to his safe space. 

And then one day, Crowley didn’t come back, and without its centre axis Aziraphale’s world began to spin off out of control. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bishop's vineyard is a real wine, although I used a bit of creative licence with the timeline.


	3. Rehabilitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley steps back from the edge, but Aziraphale takes a flying leap into the unknown.

Crowley woke up. It was dark outside and he was cold and stiff, having apparently fallen asleep on the sofa. His sofa by the feel of it. His stylish, modern, sleek sofa, that was not at all comfortable to sleep on. He had a bed, so why had he fallen asleep here? He realised he must have been asleep for a while judging by the torpor in his body. He waved a hand and heard the click as the underfloor heating started up. He didn't usually bother heating the flat much, as he was barely here these days. As he gradually warmed up and felt his body and brain start working again he thought back to the last thing he remembered. It was unusual for him to sleep this long these days, and if he did then Aziraphale would usually make sure he was comfortable. That on earth had he been up to, to fall asleep on the sofa?

Oh. Aziraphale. 

The memory slapped him across the face in disgust. He’d been thinking about how different his life would have been if he hadn’t got tangled up with an angel. He’d been so wrapped up in the dark corners of his own mind that he’d somehow decided Aziraphale was bad for him. But this is what he did wasn’t it? This was classic Crowley. As soon as something good happened to him, he found a way to reject it and destroy it. He’d never been very good at allowing himself to have happiness. Maybe it was a side effect of being eternally damned - he just knew he wasn’t worth happiness so if it came looking he shooed it away. But this was a new low for him. Everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d ever hoped for, dreamed about, and yes, fantasised about if we’re being honest, was his. Offered to him freely. But he’d been so comfortable in his little world of pain, and pining, and repression that he’d been unable to cope when all that love was given willingly. He could be free about his desires, when there was no realistic prospect of them actually happening, but now they were a real possibility, suddenly it was like looking over the edge of a vast sinkhole at the oblivion that was staring back. It was terrifying. For someone who supposedly loved change he had dealt with it particularly poorly. Aziraphale on the other hand seemed to hate change, but had shaken off the shackles of repression with impressive speed and grabbed at what they had been hiding from with both hands, and he had very strong hands. It had been too much, too soon for Crowley. Oh the irony that now the angel was the one moving too fast. 

Crowley felt the crushing disappointment drop into his body like a, well, a lead balloon, as he remembered what a mess his life was right now, forcing out a groan. He had fucked up so spectacularly this time, and it had taken an extra long sleep for him to wake up to what he was doing. 

He had tried to think of how his life would have been better without Aziraphale’s influence, and he hadn’t got very far. His downward spiral of introspection had yielded the unsurprising revelation that he would have probably not lasted very long. His tendency to rebel and reject authority would have leaked out and he’d have probably pissed off Lord Beelzebub long ago. He was good at sabotaging himself even before his Fall, so there was no reason to expect he would have been any better now. Aziraphale had given him a way to channel his urge to subvert, to disobey, to reject, and Aziraphale had been the one with enough self control for both of them to keep them from being discovered. Illicitly loving an angel had meant that he could keep up the appearance of an obedient demon. It was enough to keep him off the radar when the boredom got too much for Hell and they looked for a way to lash out. Because it was love, wasn’t it? What else could it be? He needed the angel. He felt better when Aziraphale was around, the maelstrom of his mind calming in his presence like the eye of a hurricane. Perfectly serene as long as you didn't stray too far from this centre. He liked who he was, who Aziraphale had allowed him to be when they were together. He’d felt it in what he assumed was his heart. It had to be love - only love could hurt like this. Wasn't that what they always said?

He’d concluded that She had obviously made him this way, made him bitter, made him reject any good that happened to him. Made him incapable of feeling happiness so he caused himself so much pain and anguish just so he could feel something, anything, other than succumb to the hollow catatonia again. Perhaps this had been Her game all along. Show him the love he didn’t deserve, make him crave it, make him need it. Give him hope. Watch him get a taste for how it could be, then watch him destroy it all himself. 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned'. People kept thinking Shakespeare wrote that, thanks to Crowley's efforts. But the true quote was even more apt. A William, but this one called Congreve had written. 'Heaven has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turned, Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorned', even if that 'woman' was only female when They felt like it. And it was true. Nothing that the angels in Heaven, or the demons in Hell could think of would compare to what She was capable of. Did She really hate him this much? It wasn’t enough to see him Fall once, so now he’d been cast out again, but this time he’d truly done it to himself. She'd made him to fail so She could watch him fall again and again, testing the limits of pain that one body and mind could take. Always testing. But never Her, no we can never test Her, right? The almighty God, the one being who had been present in the garden of Eden, that hadn't learnt from the apple. 

Aziraphale would never understand Crowley's cursed, chaotic, mess of a life. How could he? The angel was the epitome of joy, the perfect antithesis to the darkness that was the serpent of Eden.

Crowley curled in on himself on the sofa, trying to soothe the yawning chasm that opened in his chest, the black hole of desperation where his heart should be. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, but as he pushed his face into the sofa cushion, hoping to escape the world even just a little, he wondered if he could once more slip into that blissful oblivion where maybe he could pretend this wasn’t real, pretend that he hadn’t utterly destroyed everything that was ever good in his existence. He could seek refuge in his dreams and maybe, just maybe, pretend that he wasn’t creation’s biggest mistake. 

* * *

In the days following Crowley’s disappearance, Aziraphale had grown increasingly more frantic. He’d tried everything he could to get through to the demon’s phone, but it was resolutely turned off. Eventually he’d given up and tried going to his flat to see if he could get some answers. Usually the flat door would open for him, but this time it refused. He had laid his palm on the door to push it and been alarmed as he felt the heat of hellfire burning a warning into his skin. He could feel that Crowley was in there, detect that unmistakable sharp note of damnation, but no amount of shouting and pleading had got even the tiniest sound in response. So that was that. Crowley had rejected him with no explanation. He’d always thought Crowley to be, not so much kind really, but decent. He always behaved with basic decency, even when he was pissing people off with a view to damning their souls they were given a chance. But just cutting all ties like this? It wasn’t the Crowley he knew. But right now Crowley wouldn’t talk to him, wouldn’t see him, and had made his flat impenetrable to angels. Aziraphale could do nothing but head back to his empty bookshop. In the next few days he tried again, tried putting a letter through the door but it burned up. He tried sliding one under the door but it met the same fate. As a last resort he stuck a simple note to the wall opposite the door, shielding it from any other eyes with a small miracle. If Crowley ever left the flat then hopefully he would see it, and know what it meant. Aziraphale went back to his bookshop, and began to assess what he needed to do. Perhaps if he showed he could change, if he could be more modern, then Crowley would give him another chance. 

And so Aziraphale began to pack up the bookshop. He decided he needed to do this the human way, to take his time and really focus on clearing out all his failings to make space for a larger-than-life serpent-demon. There could be no going back so he had to make his peace with it as he went along. The first things to go were his angel figurines. Anything that had ethereal connotations went into a large cardboard box. Next it was the chintzy chairs, into the corner. He rolled up the rugs and stacked them with the chairs. He decided he would put everything into an auction, and the money raised could be given to local churches and charities. 

Gradually, with no thought to the passage of time, or desire to rest, he boxed everything up or stacked it by the door. He was avoiding the inevitable, but he knew he would have to tackle the books eventually, and he had run out of everything else. His books had been what kept him going through the centuries. They gave him purpose, they gave him hope for the humans, with such beauty, such eloquence, such wit and despair all recorded. There was such promise in these pages. He liked books of prophesy, he’d clung to them hoping they might divine some meaning out of the Great Plan, that they might give him some faith that this wasn’t all for nothing. He liked first editions, the signatures all cataloguing his impact on humanity, places where he’d been and made a difference. Lives he'd touched, and who thought him worth this gift of being remembered. He liked the misprints, reminders that humans are fallible, but from their mistakes and leaning, came unexpected joy. Even if he did suspect Crowley had a hand in some of them. But perhaps that made him want these copies even more. 

But no. Crowley was painfully clear that he did not care for books. And if Aziraphale was to win Crowley back, then the books would have to go. He needed to show the demon that he could change, that he could be what Crowley wanted. He’d never wanted to change for Gabriel and the Archangels - he had wanted Heaven to see the merit in his actions. He had hoped to show them that his way worked. 

But now Crowley was all he had left, and he trusted the demon implicitly. If Crowley didn't think he was worth his time, then he would listen. His last chance at acceptance, and he would do this. He would change, for him. 

One by one, he carefully packed up his beloved books. He worked without looking at the time, and gradually cleared entire bookcases. He realised part way through that he would need more space for this, so he rented a storage unit nearby, sending the furniture and the boxes there one by one as he cleared them out. The bookshelves followed not long after. He would find an auction to send them to once he had finished renovating the bookshop. 

Once the whole shop was clear he sat on the floor in the centre, under the skylight. He looked around the vast, empty space, stripped of all familiarity. Stripped of all the memories, all the love that the two of them had built here. Stripped bare. Just echoes of the life they had shared in the fading on the floor around where the furniture and rugs had lain, in the scrape marks in the floorboards where things had been pushed back in anger and in passion. Everywhere he looked there were the ghosts of happiness, taunting him with after-images of the life he had wanted for so long. 

Aziraphale drew his knees up and dropped his head onto them in despair, hoping that he could shut out the cruel visions. His chest felt tight, and he was having trouble thinking straight. He had no anchor, no rock from which to launch, no haven in which to land. His safe space was now as empty as Heaven and just as threatening. He called his wings into the world, wrapping them around himself in a soft white cocoon. Soon all that could be heard was a muffled sobbing, as one lonely, broken angel mourned for the perfect life he had tasted, but could never have. 

* * *

Crowley didn’t sleep again. He lay curled on the uncomfortable sofa, wishing he was in the bookshop. It had felt more like home than this flat ever did. This flat was originally intended as a stylish front, an extension of his aesthetic to maintain appearances, but really it was just another way for him to punish himself. It was bleak, it was empty, it was all hard edges and cold surfaces. It was the embodiment of his life of penance. The decoration was sparse, mostly consisting of highly personal items such as the Da Vinci sketch, or subtle mementos from moments with Aziraphale, such as the church lectern. Nothing too overt that would be an obvious link. His wrestling angels statue was a favourite of his. He had never truly decided if it was good beating evil, evil triumphing over good, or if they were indeed wrestling at all. He could usually judge his mood by what he saw in it that day. 

Right now both figures were him. His own mind perpetually pushing him back down into the dirt where he belonged, sprawled like the serpent he was. That dark part of him that knew he didn’t deserve happiness crashing in and reminding him of his worthlessness when his life took a turn for the better. He’d like to think it was a result of his Fall, but this buried malevolence, this black dog told him that it had always been there hadn’t it? Right from the start he knew he was just broken. And Aziraphale didn’t deserve broken, he deserved perfect. Crowley wasn’t worthy of such perfect love. 

He rolled over and reached for his phone. He was aware that he’d been here for some time, but the phone would be able to tell him just how long. 

Odd. It was switched off. Usually it never turned off. It didn’t need charging unless he decided it did. 

Except that, oh yes, he had turned it off hadn’t he? He hadn’t wanted to be disturbed while he wallowed. Nice one Crowley. Well that explains why Aziraphale hadn’t called him. He turned the phone on. While it was waking up he glanced at the door, hoping to find a reason that Aziraphale hadn’t come looking for him. 

Ah. Scrawled markings on the door meant that Aziraphale hadn’t been able to come in. The door was set up to burn the angel if he touched it. He winced. Crowley had really gone overboard on this one it seemed. He turned to the desk phone to see he’d unplugged that too. Because now apparently he could be thorough. He turned back to his phone as it finished booting up.

So he’d managed to block the angel every way possible. And looking at the date, he’d done it… oh fuck, he’d pulled the plug on his life three months ago. Before, three months didn’t mean much, but now? When they’d been building a life together? He’d woken up one morning, made Aziraphale a cup of tea and walked out of the bookshop, and apparently Aziraphale’s life, without a word. Aziraphale was going to be angry, and rightly so. 

He didn’t deserve Aziraphale, but the angel deserved an explanation. And he was well aware that seeing Aziraphale now was just another way to punish himself but he was so far down that rabbit hole that he may as well keep going. He started by getting rid of that stupid symbol on the door. After he cleaned it off, he opened the door and stopped. There was ash and bit of burnt paper on the floor. It looked like Aziraphale had tried to put a letter through his door. The fragments he could see couldn’t tell him everything that was written, but he found the words ‘disappointed’, ‘failure’, ‘regret’ and the phrase ‘can't be your angel any more’ amongst the fragments. Everything was spinning a bit as he stood up, so he nearly missed the final note taped to the wall opposite the door. He took it down with shaking hands. It simply said:

_I’m sorry for everything Crowley. Please don’t come to the bookshop right now. Yours, Aziraphale._

He leaned forward into the wall for support, legs barely holding him up, as the words knocked all the air out of his lungs. He'd expected anger, but this? Aziraphale had clearly seen Crowley for the useless snake that he was, and regretted everything. There was no going back from this. Crowley needed to get away from his flat, from all the memories of Aziraphale. He stumbled down to the Bentley and started the engine with a clumsy wave. He drove, aiming to leave London. Get out into the country to somewhere empty that had no memories of the angel attached. They’d tended to stick to where the people were so it shouldn’t be too hard to find an empty space. Yorkshire had loads of them, as did Scotland, and was suitably far away without having to deal with the crowds of airports or sea ports. He headed North. Or at least, he tried to. The Bentley had decided they were heading East. Soho was to the East. Aziraphale was to the East. He did not want to head East. 

“What the fuck?! We’re not going East, we’re going North. Yorkshire. Scottish Highlands. Open spaces devoid of life, human or otherwise. Now stop this behaviour or I’ll.. I’ll… I’ll tip a whole bag of sticky sweets into the passenger footwell!” As threats go it wasn’t his finest, but this was his Bentley and he knew his heart wasn’t in it to damage his beloved car.

The Bentley seemed to know this too as it trundled along without faltering, shortly arriving outside the familiar rich maroon façade of the angel’s bookshop. Except it wasn’t familiar any more. He could see through the window that all the bookshelves were gone. He reached out gently, and felt that familiar bitter tang of Grace. Aziraphale was in there, but he’d clearly decided that a change was in order. Everything from his previous life had been thrown out, and that included Crowley. Aziraphale was already moving on. Crowley’s hands gripped the steering wheel, trying to ground himself as he realised he had once again, been cast aside. He tried to coax the car into driving away but it wouldn’t budge. A century of occult influence, so of course it had picked up his masochistic habit of punishing himself. Crowley rested his head on the steering wheel that he was holding onto like a life raft, and let the rising despair take hold. He was worthless. He had known from the start that an angel, particularly one as perfect as Aziraphale, could never love him really. And yet he had been stupid enough to let himself hope. Well, this is where that got him. Once again cast out. He wept as the last fibres of his heart tore apart. 

“Please you daft vehicle, can’t you see I’ve suffered enough. Let me go.” This is what he was reduced to now. Pleading with a car that was basically an extension of his own twisted psyche. Maybe he should have let it have more petrol. Given it some oil once in a while.

The driver’s door swung open. Even his car was rejecting him now.

Suddenly the radio loudly burst into life. Harry Nilsson proclaimed:

_No, I can’t forget this evening  
_ _Or your face as you were leaving_

“Oh fuck, no, no, no, shutupshutupshutup you stupid car!” Crowley sprang to life, desperately hammered the controls with no effect. All thoughts of treating the car with liquified hydrocarbons vanishing abruptly. 

_But I guess that’s just the way the story goes  
_ _You always smile but in your eyes your sorrow shows  
_ _Yes, it shows_

Crowley looked up at the bookshop in horror. There’s no way Aziraphale wouldn’t hear this, and his stupid bastard car knew it. 

_No, I can't forget tomorrow  
_ _When I think of all my sorrows  
_ _When I had you there but then I let you go  
_ _And now it's only fair that I should let you know  
_ _What you should know_

Crowley panicked. He saw the bookshop door start to open, and he did what he always did in times of great stress, and fled. When it came to fight or flight he knew which side he was on. He bolted out of the car and made it around the corner just before Aziraphale stepped out. 

_I can't live, if living is without you  
_ _I can't live, I can't give any more  
_ _Can't live, if living is without you  
_ _I can't give, I can't give any more_

Crowley flattened himself against the wall, trying to get his stupid heart to calm down. He peered carefully around the wall, unable to resist that urge to cause himself more pain, and saw Aziraphale standing there in front of his car. He couldn’t see his face. He couldn’t see the look of confusion. He couldn’t see the heartache written in those soft grey eyes. He left before he could see Aziraphale place one had on the bonnet, as if to calm the car. He didn’t hear the music die down at the angel’s touch. He missed Aziraphale whisper softly:

“What is going on old girl? You know that’s how I feel don’t you? You always seem to know what I'm feeling. I miss him so much. But I’ll be done soon, and hopefully he’ll like the new me better than the old one.”

As Crowley stalked off into the night, hands stuffed firmly into pockets that weren’t big enough for them, he missed Aziraphale walk sadly back up the steps to his door, pause to let out a large sigh, and enter with his head bowed in resignation. 

All the Bentley could do was close its door and wait. 

* * *

Aziraphale had no idea why the Bentley had turned up outside the shop, but the car did always have an uncanny ability to put lyrics to feelings. He looked at the only thing left in his shop that he hadn’t got rid of. His drinks cabinet. They did at least share a love for the human’s ingenuity with grape and grain, not to mention berries and all these new spirits they were coming up with. It’s amazing the creativity that can be mustered when it came to pleasant ways of forgetting yourself. 

Pretty soon he was well on his way to thoroughly sozzled, having passed through crying-drunk and angry-drunk, and was now lingering on singing-drunk. His voice was achingly beautiful in its purity. Sure, he’d been created as a warrior with a focus on protection, but they don’t call them ‘Choirs of Angels’ for nothing. 

* * *

Crowley was cold. He’d never bothered with a proper winter coat, knowing full well he wouldn’t use it. But now he’d stalked around London for long enough, causing trouble for anyone daft enough to be out this late in this weather. Hopefully Aziraphale would have forgotten about the Bentley by now and he could go and retrieve it. So he turned, a mess of shivering, and chattering teeth propelled by stubborn will power alone, back towards Soho. As he turned the corner he could see his bastard car still sat where he left it. With a pause to check that he was unobserved, he glided silently towards it and grabbed the handle with numb fingers. It wouldn’t move. 

“Don’t tell me you’re turning on me as well now!” He muttered through gritted teeth. “You’re just me with wheels. I can’t reject myself!”

But, he realised, that is exactly what he was doing. What he’d always done. Always found ways to reject his own personality any time it tried to come to the surface. He heard snatches of singing and saw movement out of the corner of his eye in the bookshop window. The car clearly wasn’t opening up for him and his eyes darted to the next available spot of cover from the window. The porch of the bookshop itself. If he ducked down he couldn’t be seen there. He dashed over and curled up on the angel’s doorstop like the fool he was at his master's chambers, back leaning against the door itself, heart pounding rebelliously as if calling out to the angel. Crowley paused for a moment, listening. Aziraphale was a true angel, and of course his voice was sublime, even if he was so drunk that the words were incoherent. Crowley allowed himself a small, fond, smile. Aziraphale had always been amusing when he was drunk. It was fascinating to see the prim angel loosen up. Of course now he’d seen the angel freely showing his emotions sober as well, which still floored him even as a memory, but his drunken ramblings hinted at so much more still going on beneath that calm surface. Like a swan he glided through life, serene and beautiful, whilst under the surface it was a completely different, and far more erratic, story. 

Crowley tuned back in to realise with horror that he could hear footsteps just the other side of the door, but instead of opening, he heard Aziraphale sit down heavily onto the floor. The companion door to his own creaked and shifted slightly as the angel leant against it. Crowley was so cold now that he didn’t think he could move, least of all do it silently. He tried to breathe as slow as possible to keep himself calm and quiet. His angel was so close, just the other side of the opposing door. It was oddly soothing being so near. Just like in the days before, when he would find any excuse to be around Aziraphale, even knowing he couldn’t get any closer. He’d soak up this feeling of calm, stealing moments of meaning from right under the angel’s nose. Except it turned out Aziraphale had been doing the same thing. This time though, the angel had no idea he was there, so these unwittingly shared, bittersweet moments were his to hoard. Crowley realised the angel was speaking. 

“Look at this place. So empty, so sterile, just like (hic) Heaven.” 

Crowley couldn’t help but let his face soften into a fond grin as he realised Aziraphale had drunk enough to be at the hiccuping stage. He was utterly adorable when he hiccuped. 

“Guess I need to think (hic) about what I’m going to fill this (hic) space with now. Think about (hic) who.” 

Crowley cringed at the words. He felt the stab in his chest. He dug his nails into his palms, and then covered his face with his hands in an attempt to restrain the sob that was threatening to escape. Aziraphale was already thinking about how to replace him. He’d made his bookshop look like Heaven, so maybe he was trying to make amends with Upstairs. If Aziraphale went back there, then Crowley would surely lose him forever, and that thought tore at his soul. Aziraphale started humming again. Crowley was just trying to work out why he knew the tune when the angel started singing softly. 

_Can anybody_ (hic) _find me-ee, somebody to-oo_ (hic) _loooooooove…_

Crowley barely had time to notice the way his heart twisted at the words, feel the anguish that he couldn’t be the love that the angel deserved, when the lock on the door at his back clicked quietly, and it suddenly swung open inwards. 

He fell backwards, limbs flailing as he tried to catch himself, but the next thing he knew he was flat on his back, half into the bookshop, looking up at the ceiling. No, not the ceiling, looking up at an equally surprised angel who was slumped against the other door. Aziraphale was rougher around the edges than normal, his hair more unruly, his face devoid of its usual brevity. It briefly crossed Crowley's mind that the bookshop must have also picked up a fair bit of ethereal power, not to mention bastard tendencies, before he came to his senses and kicked back into flight mode with a desperate lunge for the door. 

He didn’t get very far. Even drunk Aziraphale was fast. Actually, he was probably faster like this, when he wasn’t constantly watching himself, making himself more amenable, squashing down his fighter instincts. He grabbed hold of Crowley with one firm hand before he could make his escape and hauled him fully into the bookshop. The door closed again, and the lock clicked back into place. Crowley eyed it warily from his recumbent position on the floor. He had the feeling it wasn’t going to open for him again any time soon. 

“Crowley! (hic) Good timing dear boy! I was just (hic) wondering how to make this space more to your (hic) taste, but now you’re here you can (hic) chose for yourself!”

Crowley cautiously pulled himself into something resembling a seated position, when you remember that the sitter is programmed to coil rather than sit, and looked nervously at the angel. This was the first time he had seen Crowley in months, and the demon had no way of knowing what state their arrangement was in now. As far as he was aware he was now trapped in here with an angel who may or may not be harbouring a grudge, was definitely capable of overpowering him, and who was drunk enough to be cavalier with consequences. 

“Well? Go on then! (hic) Make this place into somewhere you want to be!” Aziraphale waved his bottle of gin around the space vaguely. 

“I got rid of all the (hic) clutter, all the books you hated, now you can make it (hic) somewhere you want to stay, and I will know what I need to (hic) change about me to fit into it.”

Crowley’s jaw dropped. He went pale. Aziraphale had gotten rid of his books?! He somehow found his voice in amongst the shock and horror swirling around his brain. 

“You… your books… you spent your life collecting them… you can’t… you didn’t… Aziraphale please tell me you didn’t…” he managed. He couldn’t even say it aloud in case it made it real. 

“What else was I (hic) going to do? You LEFT. You obviously hated it here so much, hated me, so I (hic) did the only thing I could (hic) think of you get you to come (hic) back.”

“Aziraphale I need you to sober up. Now.” Crowley said, with as much authority as he could manage. 

Aziraphale pouted. “Don’t wanna. (hic) ‘F I sober up then you might not be (hic) real. I failed you, disappointed you just like I do everyone. Gabriel was right. I’m soft, and stupid, and useless, but I’m willing to change for you.” Aziraphale looked down into his lap, where his hands were fiddling with the gin bottle. “And if I sober up then this all becomes too real and I don’t know how to handle it.” 

Aziraphale had stopped hiccuping. Crowley tried to think back to their drunken nights, tried to remember what happened when the hiccups stopped. He heard a soft snore. Ah, yes. This was the point where the angel usually fell asleep. Crowley cautiously crawled over to him, gently lifting his face. 

“Aziraphale, what have you done with all your books? Where are they?” He asked, demonic power lacing his words whilst simultaneously twisting at his soul in guilt at his use of it on Aziraphale, but he needed to extract information quickly. 

“Storage. Under lock and key. Gonna sell ‘em when this place is finished.” Aziraphale dozily patted his waistcoat pocket. Crowley investigated and, sure enough, found a key with a storage company keyring attached. 

Crowley looked at the key, and a plan formed in his mind. If he could do this, he could make everything right again. He couldn’t make Aziraphale forgive him, but at least he could try. He had to try. If this didn't work he was all out of options. 


	4. Restitution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a plan. He can fix this. He has to fix this.

Crowley had a plan. Aziraphale told him to redesign the bookshop to exactly how Crowley liked it, so that was what he was going to do. He could do this. For Aziraphale he could, and would, do anything.  A quick google search told him where the storage unit was, and he stood up to leave. He put one hand on the door, and was relieved to find it mercifully let him through. A quick discussion about storage abilities and temporary modifications with the Bentley got him back in there too, sweetened with the suggestion of a trip to a petrol station once this was all over. 

He sat behind the steering wheel and for the first time in many months, felt alive. He had a purpose, an aim, a plan. And this one was not going to go wrong. It just couldn’t, he’d make sure of that.

Once he got to the site he located Aziraphale’s unit by following that bitter tang of Grace that permeated anything the angel owned for more than a week. He unlocked the door and threw it open, his shadow stretching out across furniture, rugs, and boxes upon boxes of… Aziraphale. Everything was here. The sum total of the material evidence of the angel’s time on Earth. It was a big storage unit. Much bigger than it looked on the outside, certainly. 

_Right, the bookshelves. Those have be the first things to go._ He thought. 

Crowley worked all night on the bookshop, blinds drawn and door locked, liberally flinging miracles everywhere in order to get it done before the angel woke up. He thought about how he would like the bookshop, just as Aziraphale had requested, and followed that. He always did what the angel requested. Aziraphale had passed out before he’d had the chance to sober up so he was going to surface with an almighty hangover and Crowley wanted to be ready for it. He had one more thing to pick up, so crept around the softly snoring angel and out the door. The bell had been persuaded to remain silent for the time being.

He tore off down the road, the Bentley showing the usual contempt for mortal concepts such as speed and distance, and thought about what would happen when the angel woke up. He’d been frightened when he saw the bookshop gutted like that. Terrified. He’d seen the bookshop gutted before, under different circumstances, but last time was different. At least this time he knew where Aziraphale was.

* * *

**Soho, hours until the end of the world**

Crowley had raced to the bookshop, rather than crept. He could see the fire and it never crossed his mind not to go in. 

But it was empty. There was no angel. 

Aziraphale was gone, his bitter tang replaced by a searing smoke that choked and crowded the senses. 

Crowley panicked. He’d spent his entire time on Earth circling the angel, forever dipping in and out, easing the ache of immortality with the only one who understood. He was never alone when somewhere there was an angel dutifully thwarting his wiles, whilst also wiling away the centuries himself. It was a graceful tango of casting him down at nearly every turn, yet also buoying him up when the occasion arose. But without that balancing force, that yang to his yin, he was off kilter. He needed that push to his pull, he needed someone on the other side keeping him on his toes. He needed to know that no matter how out of control humanity got, because, let’s face it, they were a long way from the apple now, Aziraphale was there guiding them back towards the light. He didn’t have to feel quite so guilty about dragging them down with him, when he knew there was a saving Grace out there giving them a chance. It was more than he got. 

But now that saviour had gone, because Crowley hadn’t got there in time to save him. He’d failed him, and with him had gone everything that Crowley had just spent over a decade in kitten heels fighting for. 

He grabbed the first thing that came to hand, anything of Aziraphale's that he could cling on to, and went to find a drink. He didn't normally go for something so obviously belonging to the angel, preferring to stick to mementos that could be explained away, but he couldn't bring himself to care this time. The world could all go to Hell now as far as he was concerned. Even if it didn’t happen in the next few hours, without the guardian angel it wouldn’t be long before the humans got themselves there anyway. Without Aziraphale the fight was already lost. 

So Crowley staggered into a pub, clutching the book (of prophesies, no less) that he’d saved, intending to get so outrageously drunk that he would hopefully be oblivious to the events that were to unfold.

There would be no more kindness, no more trust, no more belief. No more feeling of safety, no more partnership, or Arrangement. All that time spent longing from afar, even when they were mere inches apart. But now the distance would be eternal. 

No more expressions filled with so much, so much _love_ as he handed over a leather bag filled with bound paper and ink.

Yes, the world could all go to Hell now. He’d lost his best friend, his only friend, so what did it matter any more? 

And then, suddenly, there he was. Mostly.A ghostly spectre shimmering in front of him, but hey, Crowley is a big fan of spooky, especially when it has such an ethereal slant. It was the biggest rush he had ever felt. Suddenly the world seemed worth saving again, and it turned out by some miracle that neither of them claimed, he just so happened to have the tools to do it. 

All the angel had to do was find a new body. He couldn’t share Crowley’s, too many memories, too many urges, too much a filthy, repulsive demon. Too much want. His need for all that Aziraphale offered him, his addiction, would gorge itself on the divine presence and surely consume them both. Probably explode.

No, Aziraphale would be better off finding a human body to inhabit. One that wouldn’t spiral out of control like his would. The angel needed better than what he could offer. Crowley just had to hope he’d find it in time. 

* * *

This time Crowley knew where Aziraphale’s body was, but where his mind was currently was what was bothering Crowley. For Aziraphale to clear out his sanctuary like that was not an act that should be ignored. Hopefully the way Crowley had filled it again would be to the angel’s liking too. 

Crowley returned with the last few items and secured them away. The angel was still asleep. For a being that never really bothered with sleep he was sure giving it a good go. The morning came and went, and Crowley waited semi-patiently for Aziraphale to surface. He didn’t dare try and move him for fear of waking him up. He didn’t want to rouse him prematurely with no knowledge of how the angel would react, so he just waited. He placed water by him so he could have a drink when he woke up, and the glass had firm instructions to remain fresh and absolutely not tip over under any circumstances.

The day wore on, night eventually fell, and still Aziraphale hadn’t woken up. Crowley had fiddled and prodded and straightened everything he reasonably could and then taken to pacing around the space to try and calm his nerves. He had started the process with more hope than dread, but as the hours had worn on doubts about what he had done had started to creep in and he was now teetering back into terrified. He had told himself he was going to stay until Aziraphale woke up, at least so he could explain, so now he was stuck here in potentially hereditary enemy territory, waiting to see what would happen when his possible adversary discovered him and what he had done. Eventually in the quiet early hours of the morning he succumbed to the exhaustion of all those miracles in one sitting and went to lie down, placing his sunglasses on the table nearby. Within moments he was asleep. 

As dawn came again, the blinds had shifted and a single beam of sunlight caught Aziraphale’s face. After a brief moment of looking more angelic than he had in years, he stirred. He was unused to sleeping for more than an hour at a time, and the first thing he noticed was that his body was decidedly unhappy with where he had decided to rest. He wasn’t in his usual comfortable armchair for some reason, but appeared to be somewhere hard, and a bit chilly to be frank. 

Ah. Ah yes, the armchair. The armchair that was currently holed up in storage. He was sat on the floor because he had stripped the bookshop. Aziraphale didn’t open his eyes, preferring to stave off the inevitable for as long as possible, as his heart sunk anyway. He thought back to how he’d ended up here. The Bentley had shown up outside, blasting music that was, as usual, uncannily close to what he felt at the time. Why it had arrived here he didn’t know as it seemed to be empty, but that car always seemed to have a bit of a life of its own. Then there had been alcohol, lots of alcohol as he tried to drown his sorrows, followed by, oh dear lord, followed by Crowley. Crowley had literally fallen into the shop and for some ineffable reason he’d grabbed him and blurted out his plan. No, wait, he’d gone one worse and told Crowley to make the changes himself. 

Aziraphale rolled his head back against the door behind him with a thud, eyes still closed.

“Fuck.” He said quietly, his mouth thick with the dehydration of extended slumber, and perhaps a bit of residual hangover. Well, there was no turning back now. He was going to have to look at some point. Visions of sparse, grey concrete filled his mind’s eye, austere, brutal architecture, and uncomfortable modern furnishings no doubt. Or perhaps all sleek metal and glass like one of those shop that had a picture of fruit on the front. Crowley had been particularly amused with that. He steeled himself, lifted his head, and opened his eyes. Then he blinked a few times and tried again, frowning slightly. 

Not grey. Not modern. Not austere. 

His bookshop looked exactly the same as it had for over a hundred years. Everything was back. Had he been so drunk that he just willed the whole thing back into being? He spread his hands to get up and heard a curious clinking sound, almost as if a glass had hopped sideways. He looked down. 

Well there was certainly a glass of water there, and the little ring of condensation run-off under his hand suggested that a glass hopping out of the way was not quite as ridiculous as it sounded. Looking at the water made him realise that actually his mouth was very dry. And come to think of it, he hadn’t sobered up before he fell asleep, yet he only had the dregs of a hangover.

After a miraculously refreshing drink of water (he’d managed to get the glass on the second attempt after it hopped away from his hand again in fear the first time) he slowly got to his feet, spreading healing power throughout his body as he found aches and pains from his extended time in such a poor posture. 

He didn’t feel as if he’d expended enough power to will the whole thing back to how it was, so it must have been Crowley. The demon had been given carte blanche to redesign the bookshop to his liking, so why had he put it back to how it had been before? It was a few moments before Aziraphale realised that Crowley _had_ been able to put it back _exactly_ how it was before. Down to the finest details. How many times had Crowley been to the bookshop? Lounging around seemingly so disinterested, and yet he had been able to put the whole thing back together, piece by ridiculous, fussy piece, from memory. The implications of that nearly sat Aziraphale back down where he stood. As it was his breath caught in his throat when he realised that the whole bookshop smelled like Crowley. It had permeated everywhere. That sharp note of damnation, overlaid with Crowley’s own particular signature of petrichor and mace. Aziraphale wandered slowly towards the back of the bookshop. It had always looked so peaceful in the early light of the morning, the low sun filling the space with soft light. Too early for the foot traffic outside, its quiet absence only enhanced the serenity. This was his favourite time of the day, a special moment that seemed to be just for him. Crowley usually liked to hang around and brag about his work, but he couldn’t see the demon anywhere. Perhaps he had tried to put it back to how it was to soften the blow that he wasn’t coming back, and had taken the opportunity of a sleeping angel to sneak out again. A parting gift to reinforce that this is who Aziraphale was, and all he could ever be. But this just wasn’t what Crowley wanted. Aziraphale's heart sunk yet again, his disappointment palpable. 

Aziraphale was so caught up in his own misery that he couldn’t even look at the sofa when he passed it. The leather worn and cushions moulded to single, regular occupant’s angular body. Couldn’t bear to see it empty knowing it would never again be filled with a sprawling serpentine demon who had seen proper posture and decided he was having none of it. That was Crowley all over, he mused. Always had to go against the grain. He absentmindedly stroked a hand along the arm of the sofa as he passed, and stopped dead. His body reacting to the unexpected sensation before his brain caught up. 

Hair. Short, sprouting from what felt like a human-like head judging by the presence of an ear. His fingers tentatively explored with a feather-light touch while he held his breath. He slowly lowered his gaze, terrified that it might not be who he thought it was, but somehow even more terrified at the idea that it could be. 

He looked down just in time to see Crowley turn his head, eyes closed, sleepily nuzzling his cheek into the angel’s trembling hand. His whole world, resting in his palm. How he had longed for this, how he had grieved for its absence. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t form a tangible thought for fear of breaking whatever spell was holding this moment together. The way the demon’s features relaxed into such a peaceful expression caused a sob to escape Aziraphale’s throat before he could catch it.

Crowley startled awake at the sound, eyes darting towards the source to see Aziraphale stood over him, staring down at him with saucer wide eyes, lip trembling, looking utterly petrified. Aziraphale’s eyes flitted to the side of Crowley’s face and he realised he had his head nestling into the angel’s hand. His head had stretched back to locate the sound which, he realised, left his neck horribly exposed. His heart gave a forceful thump before he abruptly jerked himself up to somewhere approaching sitting. Aziraphale let out an anguished gasp as he pulled away. 

“Please sit angel.” Crowley asked gently. “You know I don’t like it when you loom over me.” Crowley was on high alert, watching the angel with a serpentine focus, wishing he had his sunglasses on but not wanting to move to get them, adrenaline pumping as he prepared for the worst of whatever Aziraphale chose to direct at him. And yet, the angel's face did not show anger, but fear. Crowley knew enough about nature, human or otherwise, to know a scared creature is more dangerous than an angry one. Particularly one as strong as Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale sank into his armchair without taking his wide eyes off of the demon in front of him, as if he might vanish (again) if he did. 

“You put it all back…” he said weakly

“You asked me to make it how I like it angel, so I did.” Crowley replied, his voice quiet and submissive. 

“Yes, but you put it back _exactly_ how it was before…” Aziraphale replied, the beginnings of an understanding that he wasn't quite brave enough to face yet showing up in the way his voice quivered.

“Exactly angel. You’ll have to let the dust build back up again naturally, and I’m not sure I figured out your filing system, but I did the best I could. This is how I want it angel. Why would you ever think otherwise?”

“But, your flat…”

“Which I barely spend any time in any more, or hadn't you noticed? Much rather be here. Always felt more like home.” Crowley smoothed down the blanket next to him. Aziraphale noticed it was no longer tartan but had a subtle pattern of small snakes and apples. He cast a glance around the bookshop and, yes, here and there were subtle touches of Crowley. Little details that hinted at a history shared. A black mug with a snake handle next to his white angel-winged one, a fancy coffee machine next to the kettle, paintings that bore the hallmark of Crowleys sense of humour, and of course the throw on the sofa. All separate items that could be easily removed he noted. His brain tried to grab hold of the way Crowley had said ‘home’ and put it in his heart for safe-keeping.

“Why did you leave?” Aziraphale blurted out, looking back at Crowley like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming train. “Where did I go wrong? What did I do that you found so unsatisfactory that you had to go?”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale in silence for a few moments, utterly dumbfounded. 

“You?" He choked out eventually. "Why on Earth would this have been your fault? You’re perfect angel, just as you are. I left because… well it doesn’t really matter any more. You don’t want to hear about my troubles. I'm not worth your time. Are you happy with the bookshop? Did I get it all back in the right place?”

“Fuck the bookshop Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped out, “it’s empty when you’re not here. It’s just a shell full of paper and silly stories and too many bloody angel trinkets. I don’t want it if you’re not in it. So yes, I do want to hear about it, and it does matter, because I never want you walking out like that again. And for the record, you have put everything back exactly how I remember, which is quite honestly remarkable. So never try and suggest you aren’t worth my time. You are frankly far more than I deserve my dear.” 

Aziraphale watched Crowley closely. The combination of the profanity and compliment seemed to have short circuited his voice somewhere. After a few false starts he managed to regain control.

“I left because I’m an idiot who constantly sabotages anything good that comes my way. I’ve spent so long wanting you angel that I didn’t know how to cope when I actually had you. I’m sorry. I’m a demon, we’re not known for happiness, and I just don’t know how to handle so much of it.” He said, wide eyes the colour of a dying sun staring out at Aziraphale. He was uncharacteristically still, which Aziraphale knew meant he was serious, and hyper focusing in the way that only a being with more than a passing acquaintance with serpents can. 

“So you’re not,” Aziraphale tried, caught in the hypnotic beam of those golden eyes like a mouse that was in the wrong place at the wrong time “you’re not disgusted by me? Not disappointed at what a pathetic, soft, wretch I am?”

Crowley blinked, his face flashing through various expressions before settling on confused.

“Are we thinking of the same angel? The one who, not so long ago, stood by me to face down the devil himself? The one who wielded the flaming sword? The one who came up with a plan so deviously brilliant that it saved both our lives? Does any of that sound pathetic to you?” Crowley’s body was loosening up and he was starting to shift around again.

Aziraphale relaxed slightly into his chair as well, looking down into his lap where his hands were clasped. 

“I’m still soft though.” He said dejectedly. 

“Yeah but I like soft.” Crowley grumbled, looking away. “Big fan of soft, me.” He glanced back out of the corner of his eye. There it was. There was that tentative smile on his angel’s face. They would make it out of this. 

“Now would you please bring that delightful softness over here or do I have to go full snake and slither over to you?” Crowley lounged further over and extended a long slender arm towards the angel. Aziraphale startled slightly, glancing up at Crowley for reassurance, before the smile became a little broader as his gaze settled on the outstretched hand. His expression verged on coy as he allowed himself to be pulled up and over to settle next to his demon, who promptly draped himself over the angel in his impossibly loose limbed manner. 

“This ok angel?” Crowley murmured, coiling himself around Aziraphale

“More than, my dear, more than.” Aziraphale murmured back as they both relaxed into the embrace. Aziraphale raised one hand up to gently stroke Crowley's hair. “I missed you so very much Crowley. Please make sure you talk to me before it gets out of hand next time? You deserve happiness my love, and we’re both learning, but we will get there in the end as long as we do it together.”

“Yeah, alright, alright.” Crowley grumbled, back to his usual surly self to Aziraphale’s immense relief. “Missed you too.” He mumbled quietly. 

“Well that’s settled then. We’ll bring your plants over here, and anything else you want from your flat, and make this properly our home. That statue might have to be tucked away where children can’t see it though.”

“Ngk! Angel you can’t just throw that sort of invitation out there with no warning. Do you have any idea what it will be like having me around all the time?” Crowley may have sounded irritated, but he was secretly pleased to see Aziraphale back to being just a bit of a bastard. He could handle that. 

“I won’t pretend it will be all sunshine and roses Crowley, but we’ll manage as long as we do it together. Besides, you’re adorable when you’ve just woken up”

“Nope. Don’t do adorable. ‘M a big scary snake demon. You’re the adorable one.” Crowley squeezed around his angel for good measure, and felt his heart warming as Aziraphale chuckled. 

Aziraphale pressed a kiss into Crowley’s hair. He waved his free hand into the air in a complicated gesture and suddenly a large painted golden snake began to coil around the edge of the mezzanine floor balcony, slipping behind the compass designations that had been there since Aziraphale first moved in. It came to rest with its head tucked gently in between the lines of the 'E'. Crowley looked up in surprise as he felt the miracle expand into the space around them. Now all sorts of apples and snakes were appearing in the woodwork of the bookshelves, in the wrought iron of the spiral staircase bannister, in the upholstery patterns on the chairs out in the main area of the bookshop. All permanent fixtures carved into the heart of the building. Even the daft cherub in the centre of the space under the vast skylight suddenly had a snake coiled around it, the head of which was next to the cherub's ear so they both stared down the arrow together. 

“What say you we go and get all your belongings now and find a space for them together?” Aziraphale murmured into the carmine tufts next to his face. 

Crowley just stared. He'd put a few touches of himself in, things that he thought the angel might find amusing or that he might find useful, all things that could be removed easily. A few kitchen items, a couple of prints of ridiculous renaissance paintings of Eden (and one very suggestive one that towards the back that he had been tentatively looking forward to the angel finding). He hadn't dared add anything that couldn't easily be undone, but now Aziraphale was imprinting him onto the very fabric of the bookshop. It went much deeper than a bit of gold paint. He could feel the ripples as the bookshop gently folded around him, merging him into the very core of this ethereal space, finding that hole where Her grace had been and pouring itself into the cavity. _Home,_ it whispered, _this is where you belong, wherever you go, there will always be a home for you here_. It was overwhelming, but not stifling. Rather than the suffocation he'd felt before, suddenly he felt a stability right in his centre. A relief that he didn't even know he needed. Home. He'd used the word before, but not really understood what it meant until now it seemed. Crowley had finally come home. He basked in the feeling of it. 

“Plants can wait. I’m an obedient demon, and you told me to stay so I fully intend to stay right here as told. Unfortunately for you that means you have to as well.” Crowley mumbled back, tightening his hold and burying his face into Aziraphale’s neck to hide from the enormity of his feelings. “Not moving. Can’t make me.” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He slid his spare arm under the stubborn demon and easily hoisted him into his lap, eliciting a couple of squeaks in protest. 

“I think you’ll find I can darling. But ok, a few more minutes, then we really must go for brunch. All this has made me terribly hungry.” He wrapped his arms around the bundle of gangling limbs to hold him gently in place. Aziraphale had lost his hunger before, but now he had his world back, he realised he was ravenous. 

“Crêpes?” Came a muffled suggestion from the face still buried in his neck.

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up and he wriggled happily at the thought. 

“Wonderful idea!” He said.

“Angel… not gonna make it to crêpes if you do that….” Crowley whined. His cacophony of emotions hadn't quite dissipated, and an angel squirming under him was only diverting his agitated energy to... other areas. 

“What? This?” Aziraphale asked innocently, wriggling again.

“Bastard.” Crowley laughed, and he lifted his head and saw the familiar twinkle in the angel's eyes. Oh how he had missed that. 

He kissed him. And once again it was like the first time their lips had touched. Electric and exciting, yet grounding and comforting at the same time. Two swirling maelstroms colliding and settling into orbit around each other, anchoring each other’s wild spin into an intimate waltz. 

They made it to crêpes. Eventually. 


End file.
